Summer evenings in Kabul
dust fell into the valleys,
the trees stay tranquil.
Autumn rains ,
the almond flowers have fallen,
broken in feathers.
All the streets wrapped in
snow, I don’t see the
old man walking on the streets.
Deep down from the earth,
sprout as spring runs in their bosom.
From behind the window
the moon edges
among the grapevines.
Early morning on the wet muddy streets,
the old man pushes a carriage
full of yellow mangoes.
With the midday sun,
the workers lean on
the trunk of the mulberry trees.
In twilight, next to the dried Kabul River,
the dusty gale walks so elegantly
back on the streets.
With the summer rains,
the neighbor’s clay walls
melt in mud-color.
By the end of autumn,
the grapes are well ripened, the bees
In orange attire, the sun
comes behind the mountains,
the snow disappears over the clay-huts.
the old man adds more clay to the roofs,
little poppies waiting for the sun.
The summer stream of Qarabaqh
flows over pebbles and plants.
The fish congregate in the opening
of the stream,
in autumn, blue and white.
The window frames are under frost
yet the stream still flows,
in the far sight.
In spring, the little girls
wash their dishes in the stream-
their noises falling into the air.
One girl comes back with tear
the water has run down her copper dishes.
At midnight in my village,
a white wolf whimpers in our kitchen.
The remaining smell of freshly baked bread
makes me feel the hunger of the hungry wolf.
mother walks with me to the wheat farms,
in the corners of her scarf, little cubes of sugar fastened.
Dinner is served in a big bowl-
two women and three kids, reaching for morsels
with their fingers.
Five people crawl under one quilt,
soft and warm, the moon stays behind the windows,
and sleeps in the arms of the night.