A

for Afghanistan

Kandahar, I close my eyes,
gateway to the mountains.
The Hindu Kush winds above you,
donkeys and children,
old feet in the dust,
swoosh, swoosh,
the pleats of purdah.
I wrap myself in heavy cloth
and wander unnoticed through the markets,
goat's cheese and amber.
When you were mine
and I belonged to the world,
night stars,
placed deliberately by prophet's song,
lit the way,
lit the way across the cobbles into Kabul's dusty arms.
I lay my face upon the streets;
This is the only earth I know,
and if I walk ten thousand miles,
and if it takes three thousand years,
it is to your marketplace and your children,
I will return.