But larks have not forgotten to fly
And grass still sprouts from the earth of Kabul
And rivers are replenished by the snows of Pamirs
And the groves of Samangan are filled with sounds of birds.
I do not wait for poetry
But go in search of it
Because my wings are broken
And I am left far from my nest…
I was fifteen years old
When I found the moon in the Biabanak sand dunes.
What shall I do with you, homeland?
What shall I do with all this blood?
Where shall I put you
to prevent you from filling my days
with damage and grief?
I like the sweet accent
Heard on the stairs this morning:
Persian with a hint of American.
We are sitting in the nature garden on the southern side of the campus. It is dark, and the autumn wind has picked up her ancient violin. We are talking … Continue reading