the cold dark air

is broken by the hint of sun

dawn is here

and I see our Buddhas

standing tall, standing serene

with their eyes

softly gazing over Bamyan valley

whose dirt covered our blood

of a thousand years,

of slant-eyed invaders,

of blonde-haired men,

of a foreign tongue we could not understand.

this is the land we have come from

the noises of the bazaar,

the tabla drums in our song,

and our Buddhas, watching,

protecting us.

the only welcomed infidels in a land of covered heads and rosary beads.

the voice of the thirsty mullah

echoes and bounces off our statues,

loudly, the words of the Book

are resonated through the valley,

and calmly, the Buddhas stand.


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