Afghanistan is a beautiful word,
it floats from the tongue
soft in the mouth.
Whisper it - a rhythmic breath,
then close your eyes and see -
what do you see? Tell me!
Warriers? Horses caparisoned?
Women - head to toe in black?
Children flying kites in colours -
bright as blowing poppies.
See its beauty -not its wars,
let vision open vibrant silk-road doors,
or do you, through those soft syllales,
see body-bags, kalashnekovs,
sorrow, tears, and crushed lives.
Where now the beauty of that whispered name?
Where now that silk-road magic.
I wonder - would it be the same
if it were possible to say it harshly?