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The
spring is dead and a flock of black vultures
have
laid on the sun’s bloody seat
a
feast from the moon’s skull and bones of stars.
The
spring is dead and nobody measures life and light
with
the sun’s breaths.
And
nobody knows that the sun in my land
has
grown several centuries old
in
three hundred sixty-five days.
Spring
is dead and nobody knows
who
from the devil party fired the first bullet
during
the sun’s execution rite.
Spring
is dead and the ashamed mourning multitudes
in the
blue seclusion of Nirvana
heard
only the sound of a blast
that
blew apart the history’s millennia-old mind.
The
spring was dead when the “Islamic Gateway”
was
auctioning pieces of our torn body
at the
crossroads of conspiracy
at the
crossroads of the “Idol-Breaker’s Calendar”
The
centuries-old dead bodies
died
several thousand times in old graveyards
And
the centuries-old dead bodies
died
of shame in old graveyards and
died
several thousand times over
When
the “Islamic Gateway” on
the
broken faces of Kabul walls:
inscribed in bold-faced letters:
Congratulations on the Victory
April
2001
Peshawar |