This one is by Zainab.
Zainab was born in Kabul. She spent the Taliban years in Iran completing a pre-university program in Mathematics. She returned to Afghanistan and completed courses in computer and writing. Her goal is to share her knowledge and experiences with returning Afghan emigrants to help them understand the significant changes Afghanistan has undergone in recent years.
When everywhere was dim like a grave,
When just the voice of a cricket was heard in the reticence of night,
I understood from the tears of the moon that there is no morning.
Even the moon was tired from shining in the inexorable night of the world.
And wanted to say goodbye as the sun left the polluted sky.
But it was surrounded by the circle of wild stars grinning and guarded
because they needed light.
There was no word about affection. No place for interest.
A child was running under the rain, screaming and dancing.
The purity of water became muddy like the eyes of friends.
His only mate was rain. He washed his pains by it and played.
But suddenly he became afraid. Even rain had an owner.
The sky roared, shouted and boasted of her ownership of the child’s pure heart.
He was afraid as he was afraid of that gardener.
He had picked up a red apple from the love garden
And the gardener followed, running after him.
The picked apple fell on the soil from his small cold hands.
He waited quizzically for God’s kindness, with tears tired of rain
and feet ulcerous from falls.
As God is great, he looked for Him in the sky.
But when the sky roared at him,
His hope died.
To donate to AWWP and learn more about the wonderful work they do, please check out http://awwproject.org because, as the website states, to tell one’s story is a human right. Writing has helped me so much and I don’t know what I would do if the simple act of picking up a pen or powering on a computer put my life in danger.