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The political turmoil in Afghanistan, fear, deaths, and exodus, is voiced in this poem, by Sunil, exclusively for Different Truths.
The elected left. System collapsed. There is smoke outside the palace but the air inside is pure. Trees are daily pruned by the staff for the new king. And power parleys are on. Here, in the bleak country where the poor and elite are imbalanced, as always, for centuries, democracy or monarchy. Folks flee. There is gun fire around the squares and streets, signaling change. Exodus! Death stalks. Something is broken inside everyone but there is absence of popular rage in these walking ghosts. Homes abandoned, cries –not laughter – heard. Somebody asking for the sun in this night that recurs often – long, dreary and dull. They are asking for a miracle in God-forsaken world where the common citizen is the first casualty; ironically, everything done in their name.
Visual by Different Truths
