Do you remember all those wounds on her body and soul?
when she was pulverised like bamiyan buddhas never to again become whole;
incarcerated in veil, with a merciful one-way window to the world,
silence was rammed down the throat of the singing bird.
denied all laughter, hope, song and even the fresh air,
she was expected to deliver, in dark rooms, the male heir.
her face corrupts, they explained, her footstep excites,
shaming her for the raging lust that within them fights.
her thumbs chopped off to teach the lesson to painted nails,
kicked in flank and shin, for venturing out, unchaperoned by males.
when her flight was cut short midway, with Kalashnikov's aid,
who could have thought that of much stronger stuff than bamiyan stones she was made
that not only she, in all fortitude, survived the night,
but rose from her incinerated self to make her nation see the light
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