Bhawana Pokhrel

It was last year, I had seen you

At the Peace Corps’ meeting

Also at the poets’-peace-preaching

You were always in white attire

I wondered why?

If you ever wore anything more

That was a half-sleeved Gandhi

Black coat; pocket-full-saffron

The ancient Pasto tongue with

Mellow wild pistachio nuts

In turn yourself thirsty for peace

You had served that apple juice

From the majestic Afghan mounds

Spreading awareness, seeking justice

You’re seen in the bluest beach

Sometimes, in the Afghan rocks

Sometimes, over the global screen

With your captivating emerald eyes

Soothing voice, you pleaded to live

And let live; yet why the world is

So cruel against you (?); you say

Every dead of the night when we talk

Nothing is sure, in and about your life

Squeezing my heart with empathy rife

Like the mustard seeds into the machine

Leaving me all chaff, devoid of my life

Without yours—why doesn’t the world

And the man-made-into-demons listen

It’s only lovingkindness which cares all

That would cure and treat the world fair

I am a heliophile; I fear hatred and war

I am a thalassophile; but I shun blood

Every Afghan is not a terrorist, hark and mark it!

S/he’s an absolute right to life, liberty, and joys

Every sick, weak, elderly, young and all the boys

Whether in white attire, black veil and grey eyes!

You have gone missing, voiceless, may be for your life

Or the demons have devoured you alike the black hole

Does to life; I am not sure, if we would meet any more

Hear your soft voice or see your peaceful emerald eyes!