Poetry

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Phoenix

Every night, a fire burns within me—
strong, intense
threatening to turn me to ashes.
But every morning, I rise
from the ashes of my yesterday—
from the remnants of who I was,
from the echoes of old victories.
At dawn, I choose to stand up again—
to refuse defeat,
to record my journey,
to honor my struggle—
for it brings me a quiet joy,
a sense of purpose.
No matter how the chemicals
storm through my body and mind,
no matter how unbalanced they are—
I choose to live,
just one more day,
and then another,
and the next one still.

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Letter To Myself

I found you the moment the world walked away
that’s when you became my world.
You stayed when no one else did,
while loneliness pressed
against the fragile glass of my joy.
You nurtured me,
protected me,
and held me through the storm.
You let me cry
until my tears ran dry
You let me fear
until fear itself faded
You let me rage
until fire turned to ash.
I promise to spend more time with you
to sit beside your ache,
to listen
without rushing to fix,
to offer the softness
you carried in silence for me.
to take care of your wounds
and to rise with you.

For in knowing you,
in choosing you
I see the world,
more clearly.
 
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Together, We Heal

Digging into deep past wounds,
peeling the onion of personal development
I know it hurts, but please keep healing *watandar
Heal so that generations after you
do not have to suffer the way you do.
Heal so you know what inner peace feels like
calmness, safety, a heart at ease.
Heal so there will be more brotherhood
and sisterhood among Afghans,
a future brighter and hearts more whole.
I know it hurts, but please keep healing.
Heal, dear friend, and let the pain release,
Break the old chains, let the silence cease
Let’s heal the intergenerational traumas, together.
Together, let’s mend the wounds of the past.

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Cisarua*, I Will Remember You

Stuck in jammed traffic on your streets,
Sitting on the back of a red motorbike,
Hoping to get home sooner,
Lost in the river of my thoughts:
Cisarua, I will remember you…
The soft sound of your warm summer breeze,
The dance of branches swaying in your trees,
Stuck in traffic still,
As the bike climbs your winding hills.
Suddenly, a sharp sound breaks my trance
The siren of your traffic police car,
Hovering over the narrow street,
Announcing it to be one-way,
Saving us from the hot summer heat.
Our motorbike speeds up, overtaking the cars,
I breathe in the windy, fresh air,
Enjoying the beauty of your trees
Lining both sides of the crowded street.
Cisarua, I will remember you…
The familiar sounds of motorbikes,
Breaking the calm of your mountains.
Minutes later, I walk the unpaved path,
Passing green rice fields leading me home,
Reaching our pink-purple house
I finally feel fulfilled.
Cisarua, I will remember you…
You were the first place I felt accepted, at peace
Even as an Afghan Hazara refugee.
I’ll remember your rain,
your endless green,
the quiet comfort in everything in between.

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Gone

Thank you
for going
and leaving me.
For after you,
I saw life for what it is:
cruel, wild,
and strangely free.
Thank you
for going
and leaving me.
For after you,
I became someone
I never thought I could be-
Stronger,
Wiser,
and truly free.

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I Come from

I come from the magnificent mountains
protecting the fields of the wheat.
I come from green lands, freshwater creeks.
I come from gardens filled with apple trees.

I come from Almito, Malistan, Jaghori.
I come from Quettea, Mariabad, Borori.
I come from Qom, Mashhad, Varamin.
I come from Borgor, Cisarua, and the seas.
I come from the Middle, the South, and the East of the East.

I come from hearts filled with pains.
I come from a country filled with depression and PTSD.
I come from *Qalin, *Khamak Dozi, Graphic Kogi.
I come from *Jalghoza, *Kishta, and *Qoroot.

I come from IE, the dial-up, Yahoo Messenger.
I come from pens, papers, and books.
I come from the diaries filled with notes,
stickers, and quotes.

I come from a Hazara ancestry
The resilient victors of adversity.

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