Poetry of Rozita Bahar (Volume I) By Rozita Bahar April-Sept. 1999 Lemar-Aftaab What If What if the sun took the moon, Stole away the night, and made it an everlasting noon? What if the rain, turned into gold, Equaling the difference, Between the rich and the poor? What if sunflowers took the color of blood, Creating leaves of skin, with stems as brown as mud? What if the truth was never exposed, Would I be where I am now, Or on a different road? - - - - - - - Unwanted Gifts I look towards the remains of a playground, A homeless child sobbing with no sound. I look towards what used to be an exquisite, elegant cuisine, A beggar with two arms but one leg, trying eagerly to lean. I look towards what used to be my great grandfathers grave, Forty-five dead men, not one I could have saved. I look towards my mother struggling to rise, Bloody tears of anguish seeping from her eyes. I look towards my brother and sister, Feeding on the decaying meat of dead soldiers. Oh Lord, oh Lord, I am begging from the bottom of my heart and on my knees, Please don't furnish no more of Afghanistan's misery upon me! Oh Lord, of Lord, you have burnt the last of my candle, Oh Lord, you're giving more than I can handle. - - - - - - - Dispursing Pain Afghanistan is a desert in which no man will abide. Its sobbing rain, cries with the wind, feeling the anguish that the squalor hides. What can't be seen by the birds or the flies, Is the ache felt by the ground deep within, From all the corpses who are dead but still cry. Its light never strengthens for the country to take form, But lies as weak as a shot deer, Since the day it was born. And while we all travel to decease, We pray halfway into eternity, That one day we'll die in utter peace. We work and earn our bread, To have full stomaches on an empty night, And wake to find half our kind dead. Crying is useless, in matters such as this, A tear is the body's weight and to lose it brings no bliss. I am an Afghan and yet can't defy, Why our land is sundered, Or when I'll cease its cry. - - - - - - - Sweet Rain Raindrops of Spring, You’re too sweet to be stopped. When you fall, roses sing And stretch their petals for a drop. Raindrops of Spring, I want to hold your scent, Like the fresh jasmines you bring, An aroma thought as heaven sent. Raindrops of Spring, Your sight depresses all the birds For you've brought a ring of jealousy, That’s worn each time you’re heard. - - - - - - - Never In Its Place I thought I could never, Shanghai the sun from the sky And place it precisely in the center To dry these tear brewed-eyes. I thought I could never Melt a heart made of steele, Give it a beat or a quiver, Or make it real. I thought I could never Seek your attention as my own, But I did when you read This uniquely written poem. - - - - - - - Reserved Fight When placed in your country And bloody wars surround you, Drag not your father’s pride down And aspire to leave without a sound. Your chair has been placed, Solely reserved in no name but yours, To sit with no shield but your face, And quarrel for a freedom made door. Fight your father’s way, Pristine and clean as a race, Blood is a sin as the pain will stay In your heart in a guilt-filled trace. When placed in your country And bloody wars surround, Drag not your fathers pride down, Or apsire to leave without a sound. - - - - - - - Rotating Impressions When one writes a poem And they're more drunk than a beggar, Would the written poem be the same Read when he's sober? - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Copyright © 1999 Aftaabzad Publications. All Rights Reserved. May not be duplicated or distributed in any form without permission.