To, Hosseini

What to leave behind,

When everything is taken,

Them hopes,

Burried blindly

In some graveyard with Mariyam,

Some dreams,

Destroyed barbarously

Like an unseen, all grown up Hassan,

Some love,

Snatched away heartlessly

Like Abdullah’s memory,

Now I am stuck

On this page, wondering

If you were more cruel

Than Alzheimer’s,

Or more wicked

Than the Soviet Army.

An ounce of laughter

With Laila’s nuances

Or Amir’s romance

Or Pari’s plight

Was never enough,

To mend a heart

Boiled and burned

By your twists and turns,

What reperation

Did you give

For the nights 

Deprived of sleep,

For the drives

Bereft of senses,

For the aimless reading

Of other books

Devoid of focus,

Just because my mind

Was fixated

On Sohrab’s numbness

On Tariq’s uncertain return

On the voices

That will echo

When I return

To the mountains

Inside an abandoned dream.

Which you always knew,

I will.

Sooner more than later.

So, Don’t you dare take pride

In converting-

A world that you created-

Into my oyster.

Because when other books fail,

The poems that I write,

THIS poem that I write-

Takes me away,

From the Kolba, Kabul and finally,


Into the garden

That is far beyond the ideas

Of your wrongdoings

(And sadistic pleasures

Of killing souls

Filled upto the brim

With divine mysticism,

Whom I loved with

All my dear heart),

And your rightdoings

(Of evoking emotions

And suppressed tears

That had almost died

Living inside me,

Burried somewhere deep

In the depth that you scraped,

With your pages,

Your words,

Their wounds

And deaths),
And I will meet

Nila and Mariyam and Jalil,

Hassan and Baba and Rahim,

And hopefully you,

In this garden

That I created for you.

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