After many years, freedom had returned to our city.
That year, we were born in Afghanistan.
In those times, as I grew,
Kabul became more beautiful day by day.
But this time in which everything became better came to an end.
Safety ended.

Every day the thunder of explosions.
Every day people bleeding in every corner of the city.
Every day men dressed in black in every nook.
Every day the feeling of being surrounded by death.
Every day we still went to school, but now we went with anxiety and fear.

Until someday, peace and prosperity might come back?
My classmates and I had to bury this hope.

How can I explain that every day children bled to death in the streets,
but we still went outside?
How can I explain that we belong to a generation
that is buried alive every day?
How can I explain that we, suffering poverty and despair, losing arms and legs, mother and father, brother and sister, that despite everything, we continue living?

This is our generation, the young generation, the future generation too.
But our hopes for the future – they buried them.