A hundred kisses I send to the dust
That your feet whirl up.
A hundred times melancholy you had to suffer to find bread.
If only I could become the calluses on your hand.
Not once did you complain, or say that you were tired
I bowed before your sacrifice.
Just like you circle the Kaaba,
I want to circle you.
But even that would not suffice,
To repay your hardship.
We sat on the flatbed of the truck,
In the desert of Nimruz, when we saw seven corpses.
Who had killed these poor people?
We got off to look at the dead.
The men were young, 20, 21 years old,
All dead, except for one.
He was still breathing.
The blood on his body had already dried.
We asked him, »what happened?«
He said, quietly, »thieves.«
They had been ambushed and robbed.
The dying man warned us: »robbers, robbers, take a different route.«
We fled and left him lying there.
Could I have done anything differently?
more: Samiullah Rasouli