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.

Clifton Redmond