only bloodstained shoes are left behind
with bombed arms, separated heads, flesh,
bloodstreams running across the wedding hall.
Human body parts shrouded the chairs and tables,
the fresh skin parts are swaying with blood drops,
sliding down on the parted forehead of a child –
their intestines sprouted out of their bellies
like my grand mother’s woolen carpet threads,
kidneys are fractured from the middle with
the bullets stuck with heads half in and half out.
The bride and groom are laying deed,
steeped in their own sticky blood
with the ribboned knife in her right hand,
stopped cut, motionless on the wedding cake –
their wedding dresses are stained, soaked
by warm reddish departing blood –
like the raw fruit falling upon the ceramic.
A mother lays faced up, with eyes still open,
hands stilled, locked on her burnt chest,
father’s head swings like football in blood.
The the left hand of little Qasim is still hanging
in father’s pocket with fractured bones, flesh,
blood dropping filled the father’s pocket…
And the father only holds his hands and screams.
He falls unconscious and turns to conscious again
not knowing that his left leg is blown up.
The agony of death:
The victim of hatred:
The hostaged refugees in closed camps:
The prey of genocide in their own lands:
Hazaras…and only Hazaras.
But each time silently graved in group,
prayed to rest at peace in the heart of
the only Death Accepting Soil…
while others remain behind waiting for their turn,
though burning in the blowing wind like a candle,
trembled, burnt, relived and then killed.
This is painful, knowing you are genocide,
persecuted in every possible way
with no faults but of your:
And your civilized attitude.
How should I dare to offer you my hands
from behind these distant celled walls?
My hands are chained, my legs are banned,
my voice is cut; lips are sewed tight –
experiencing a more painful death here…
this death is compromised, negotiated and planed….
How shall I negotiate the implications of:
How should I consolidate this grieving heart
while witnessing my Shoulders, Eyes, Hands
are cut one by one by a blunt knife?
This reminds me of one of my friends’ poem:
First, they came for Hazaras,
I stood up with arms in held
saying, “They are not Hazaras.”
Second, they came for Shaias,
I said, “They are not Shias.”
Third, they came for us all,
but there was no one anymore
to stand and defend us.
Rise up Human Rights Defenders.
Don’t blank us with your empty slogans only.
Today is our turns and tomorrow will be yours
if you keep silent now.
Abdul Samad Haidari