|The Mud walls of Kabul...2006|
With myriad dreams and ideas galore
Cob webs, cob webs await in store
Reality hits me like an icy pool.
“Why can’t you dance to our chorale noise?
Why don’t you design our fashion box?”
They shamelessly ask in a single voice,
“Why don’t you bend and smell our socks?”
Superstitious tongues wriggle like snakes
Hissing, fizzing like they know it all;
So much farce, so many fakes;
Mask after mask, they march and fall.
Reasons are lost and wreaths are laid
Over proven thoughts and wisdom of old;
In Colorful costumes of wanton pride
They party and know not their soul is sold.
After every word they check their watch
“Time is gold” they proudly say;
They realize not it’s a prefixed match
Puppets who never will know their play.
Together they think and nod their head;
Cloned club with a common brain;
Moving shadows – the living dead;
They move in circles like a keyed toy train.
Second hand lives after pomp and pelf;
They live for attention and love the limelight.
Every man a stranger to himself
Yet they love to believe they’re right.
My feet run as far as they could
In search of a place where they’ll hurt me no more;
But my spirit stays waiting to explode
With myriad dreams and ideas galore.
(Written in Kabul- 10.04.2006)