For Afghanistan

 

Soft is the grass on which the blooming, billowing, morning sunlight lands.

Stage lit and starstruck are its innumerable, dew guilted strands.

A luscious morning feed, on which mountain muscled bulls feast with greed.

Bordered and fenced, territorially stamped that others may heed,

The sign which declares, this field is theirs, enter if you dare.

No radiant daisies prosper here, stamped underfoot without a care.

A divided land, with fields each like the other,

Splintering lines splitting sisters and brothers.

What worth this green clod on which red blood is dried?

Which grass is greener on which other side?