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Sunday, 25 September 2011

Swat Valley

I wrote this poem in remembrance of the beautiful Swat Valley

I left behind…

Because Talibans
With the religiousness
 Of Kalashnikovs

Are purifying
Pakistan
For their self-made deity:

Who hates
Cricket;
Women and girls;
Artists and
Apostates.

Valley
Of death;
Backwardness.

Over the hills
I hear the shells.

Nature is in pain.
Pine-needles are falling.
Blood drops
Are blotting
The snow-swathed hills—
Upsetting
The blue-silver-spread lakes.


I left my heart
In the Swat
As I lay
In the blue plastic
Refugee tent.

My mother is dead.
My father has disappeared.
My brother taken by force
To be a next-generation
Taliban.

I close my eyes,
Pining.

The birds are singing.
The lake is still.
The white-blue pebbles
Shine with glorious shyness.

The air is pure
As the wind
Tousles
The introverted pines
That grace
The ancient footpath.

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