Broken…
Afghanistan,
The land of warriors’ battlefield--
A historical ground for defeat and victory.
Every particle of its yellow soil
Is a recollection of enemies’ residue!
Brick, and mud houses yet breathe
The history of its destruction.
Gray wooden doors, hanging open
To welcome the handicapped resident.
Collapsed walls still reside,
To stand back as peace shelters.
In that playground, march the symbols of strength--
Those injured heavy crinkled tanks,
No more can they kill the enemies…
Have now become the toys of joyless children.
Children discover remnants of war,
Hidden in huge pile of dead junk.
My white haired, and wrinkled grandmother,
Tells me stories of horror movies of war...
She left her decades old mud-house--
All were lost, but her children!
No walls around, but open ground
No chairs, students with books under trees.
The ruined map of my homeland
Tells me stories of bleeding corners.
Reminisce of old folks beautifully
Traces the hostile beauty of war!
Today is yet another reflection
Of my land’s red painted history!
