She is pear
Script is with me.
Rough paper, ink green.
Years are gone…
But still…
Like her hair in the wind
Cloud’s line, floating
Horizontal, hang behind
In dreams; she on run
Memories are mirror
They remind.
His poem in that time
The rule of, Taliban
In Kabul
Poets were old, and young
He had guts.
“She sits down
Her body, makes a pear.”
How could he?
Even thought is fear.
Burns kebab, in flame.
Desert’s night, cold shiver.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem