I left behind…
Because Talibans
With the religiousness
Of Kalashnikovs
Are purifying
Pakistan
For their self-made deity:
Who hates
Cricket;
Women and girls;
Artists and
Apostates.
Valley
Of death;
Backwardness.
Over the hills
I hear the shells.
Nature is in pain.
Pine-needles are falling.
Blood drops
Are blotting
The snow-swathed hills—
Upsetting
The blue-silver-spread lakes.
I left my heart
In the Swat
As I lay
In the refugee-blue
Plastic tent.
My mother is dead.
My father has disappeared.
My brother taken by force
To be a next-generation
Taliban.
I close my eyes,
Pining.
The birds are singing.
The lake is still.
The white-blue pebbles
Shine with glorious shyness.
The air is pure
As the wind
Tousles
The introverted pines
That lace across
The bygone-aged footpath.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem