Sestina for Afghanistan

Night-time traffic winds through Kabul’s bazaars in a current of electricity.
Cement-colored mountains that cradle the city are stark, austere in their beauty.
Giant cauliflowers, pyramids of melons, pomegranates, spices-- Afghan food.
Like smoke, the call to prayer rises from the mosques filling the air with unquestioned truths.
Suited workers, burqua draped women, school boys-each wants to return home in safety.
After three decades of war, drought, and poverty, the only thing missing is hope.

Youths learning English in internet cafes are the foundation for some small hope.
People want services—safe water, decent roads, consistent electricity.
Who will build houses, factories, or schools unless they can count on their safety?
Talibs slashed many paintings, pulled down their Buddhas, destroyed everything of beauty.
They banned kite-flying, music, dancing, the sound of women’s feet in the street speaking truth
about gathering water, firewood, serving all, being the last to eat food.

Up in Barek Aub we pass out cooking oil, salt, flour, tea, spices for Afghan food.
When I see little girls and boys, the same size as the bags they carry, I hope.
I am hopeful; when young leaders speak of what life is like and they speak the hard truth.
The class stops, and everyone debates passionately-- I feel the electricity.
One says he wants to start an eco-tourism business in Bandi-amir’s beauty.
When ISAF armor patrols the city It feels safe; for a time we dwell in safety.

My wish for Afghans is that they dwell in their homes in quietness, joy, and safety.
That their tablecloths be covered with Kabuli pilau, kebabs, an abundance of food.
Roses of every shade scent the wind, in their well-watered gardens flowing beauty.
In courtyards, behind iron gates, brightly colored finches warble of love and hope.
May they harness the sun and wind, to light mud villages with electricity.
In their homes, workplaces, in the city square-- let the pearl they value, be the Truth.

This is a turning point, the valley of decision, will Afghans choose lies or truth?
If they cede power to poppies, or violent pulpits, there can be no safety.
Trust before investment, peace before aid, stability before electricity.
Land that grows blood— brings down the curse of drought-it can never, ever, grow enough food.
Grow forgiveness instead of Badal; choose trust, weed out prejudices, nurture hope.
Pledge your lives and your sacred honor, to build this nation, and preserve its beauty.

In the snow dusted Pamirs, lakes- are the wide turquoise eyes of the mountains’ beauty.
The eagle screams his need for space, understanding--the hooded falcon’s silent truth.
In the desert sands of the Shomali plains, the smallest of wildflowers hopes.
The bright-eyed Kuchi children scamper under black tents, like goats scattering for safety.
In the high mountain passes, the black panther waits, crouches, trembling for her food.
New year starts, when red tulips thrust through white clouds to jolt blue skies with electricity.

White doves rise from the Blue Mosque, wheel in hope, that the phoenix will rise in beauty
from the blood-red ashes with alacrity, stretch out its golden wings, singing truth
speaking wise words as banners for safety, leaving its egg of myrrh as spirit food.