In Kabul

In my dream I am Aman, silent,

safe from sirens at three AM,

mother’s barbaric screams,
cracks of bullets,

Fathers disappearing like Djin

under street lamps. In that sleep, my eyes

have no need to bleed,
drizzle-sadness at the sight

of Kabul disappearing

from my window amid airstrikes:

streak-trails of missile,
domes of after-blast, blazing,

growing from bombed

out malls, schools and mosques,

everything dissolved before morning sun.
So I pray to Allah, save us

from the grasp of Gish,

give back the night her blackened gown,

studded sequins, silver pendant,

give back the night her beautiful silence.