A cry escapes the throat of every Afghan.
A dying person in every corner of this city.
If one’s homeland is one’s mother,
mother has fallen into the hands of beasts.

Young girls tremble because of the monsters.
Our palace and parliament are the foundations of our home –
The agents have conquered both.
We had an army, it crumbled under enemy gunfire.

Our life, our home – why has our fate fallen into the hands of beasts?
A fire in every corner of the city.
The fire worshippers kindling the flames.

The alleys full of blood, the dying child buried under the mother.
The Talib relishes the bloodshed while bodies pile up in front of his house of worship.
And the pain of the war’s orphans cannot be soothed.

Either God is dead.
Or heaven has fallen.