Diaspora Blues

To my dear countrymen:

I’m sorry blue skies are not beautiful to you anymore.


A boy from Pakhtunkhwa

Told us he prefers grey skies

Because the drones don’t fly in grey skies.


I cannot tell you how to survive

Or tell you how to wake up in the morning

and pretend you are okay

Not safe in your homes

Not wanted anywhere else in the world


Sometimes I imagine

That we have traded places

And I am the one running desperately for my life

Under drones and missiles

Confused and afraid

And I imagine you are here

Drinking from the fountain of freedom

That I must die for your enjoyment


And this is how I feel, my Diaspora Blues.

When you are there

And I am here.

That my waking existence

Is like one thousand needles

Slowly penetrating your heart.


For six thousand years

My soul lived in Afghanistan

And for twenty five

It has been in purgatory.



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