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.