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I passed through remote winters
where
everyday an old man
from a dark
history’s street
stood on the
ancient Zenborak Wall*
cursing the
bright civilization of his tribe
Then he rolled up his sleeves and
planted by
the false stream
the black
poplar of his sermons.
I passed through remote winters and
noticed that the sun’s hands
failed to put
anything on a child’s small palm
The sun’s generous hands
in the frozen
streets of eclipse
were empty of
its shining generous coins
The sun’s generous hands
were rotting
in the night’s dark pockets.
I passed through remote winters and
it was possible there to offer the
bread fragrance
as a rich perfume gift to the most
beautiful city girl
And it was possible there
to graft the blossom of the bread image
to the perfume of illusion
in the flower
vase of the children’s minds and
look forward
for rain.
I passed through remote winters and
I saw there people nearby a bakery
counting with
their fingers
the coins that the king of poverty
had minted on either side “hunger”
As I returned home at night with a bundle of hunger
my children understood
from the
broken lines of my hands
the meaning
of geographical nothingness
And they drank water from the pot of thirstiness
And for expectation, they expected a flower bouquet
at the crossing point of winds.
My children have mastered the culture of hunger and
speak foreign languages and
from morning
to evening translate the word “bread”
from the kitchen dictionary into a
thousand languages.
My children know
that “bread has overcome
the amazing prophetic mission.” **
My children know that
the destruction alphabet has been
written
on school blackboards
with a chalk
made of fire.
And the red rain of the disaster
has flooded the school’s orchard of
songs
with the blossom of silence.
My children know
that the school is a monkey
unleashed in the black jungle of guns
a despised exile in the island of
tanks.
I passed through remote winters and
I heard the voice of an old man
flowing in the ruptured vein of every
explosion
inviting death to watch the city.
And he still shackles life
in the lowest level of hell.
And stones the spring
in the green mirror of plants.
I recognize his voice;
his voice invites the sinister
crows
to the high branches of the orchard.
His voice sings a lullaby
to the child of light
in the cradle of dawn and
beheads wakefulness.
His voice is a carnivorous plant
rooted in history’s stench.
I passed through remote winters and
know that no person awake at night
had ever heard the sun’s coughing
from the other side of the darkness’
hills
And I know there is nothing in the land--
In the land, a swarm of the vultures of explosion
bite into the ripped body of the day.
And the village old farmer
thrashes his harvest
in a circle
of nothingness.
And hunger is measured by a centurial measurement
which the sun
has lighted
the human
rights as a golden dome
over the
pavilion of its awareness
There is nothing on the earth.
On the earth nobody trusts his shadow
And the curve of every street
is a passage that
has linked the Seven Adventures of Rustem ***
to the reality of history.
I have come from remote winters and
my feet recognize every span
of the trail of misery.
What should I say?
The silk of my sentences are short
The “button” of my words is broken
What clothes should I tailor
for the tall
figure of my pain?
Kabul,
April 1996
*An
ancient wall built on the Zenborak Mountain in Kabul city
** An
allusion to a line from Farogh Farrokhzad, a famous Iranian poet
***
Rustem is the central hero of Ferdowsi’s epic The Shahnameh (The Book
of Kings) |
