Comments about Pierre Dumaine
The sky was burqa-blue
when they carried your body
out of your home. Blue-on-blue,
background and foreground melded,
and you vanished from the shouldered bier,
enveloped by the heavens.
You were only 25.
You had to die,
Poet of the Gule Dudi, Dark Flower.
No, my sweet, not Dark Flower, but
Daughter of the sun and moon an stars,
your name will live forever on the lips of
those who loved you and your poetry,
and who came to mourn you in Afghan's Herat.
Herat! Sad ...