The people in my country are always running They cannot sit; they are rushing and suffering They cannot LIVE—because they are trying to survive In Arabic “The Life of the world is like the rain/That waters the crops of the earth” (10:24) I was not even a year old, when my family ran A migration across mountains Marked desperation mounted In raids, bombs, and blockades And once, they got caught Caved, covered by an avalanche of rock Left to die But that wasn’t what my sister wanted My sister dug us out The people in my country do not have time to think They no longer hear the voice of rivers Or the smell of flowers in spring Because Afghanistan, they say, is the most dangerous place in the world I felt this violence when a bullet tore through me, on the front line fighting The Taliban I felt it as I watched the rain fall that night I watched it stream over Daud’s scarf; Daud, he was next to me I saw it in the tears of the man who rescued me But it hurt me most ...
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