Az Badakhshonume

Whenever he was in the mountains, wherever he took off his shoes, they would always point towards his city but he never thought that this might mean his homeland would be liberated. Now that he’s in his city, wherever he leaves his shoes, they point towards lands beyond his but he never dreams that the day might come when, without seeing the mirage that exile always sees, without any direction from his shoes, he will travel through the heart of his country, store myth in his grandmother’s wooden chest and, in the cellar of a happy house, close many colourful doors on it like the doors in his childhood stories.

No desire to open my mouth What should I sing of…? I, who am hated by life. No difference to sing or not to sing. Why should I talk of sweetness, When I feel bitterness? Oh, the oppressor’s feast Knocked my mouth. I have no companion in life Who can I be sweet for? No difference to speak, to laugh, To die, to be. Me and my strained solitude. With sorrow and sadness. I was borne for nothingness. My mouth should be sealed. Oh my heart, you know it is spring And time to celebrate. What should I do with a trapped wing, Which does not let me fly? I have been silent too long, But I never forget the melody, Since every moment I whisper The songs from my heart, Reminding myself of The day I will break this cage, Fly from this solitude And sing like a melancholic. I am not a weak poplar tree To be shaken by any wind. I am an Afghan woman, It only makes sense to moan