Martha Landman

Here, when the mountains
are capped with snow
the night breeze sings ghazals
on the plains

On summer nights
lovers lie on home-spun carpets
spread on a dirt berm
they feast on pistachios
and pomegranates,
drink goat’s milk and listen
to the harps and the flutes,
the herdsmen on the valley floor

Behind dust curtains
children are twilled
in cotton cloth
desert storms
IEDs and hand grenades
fight holy wars
at night the wind howls
across the desert
in the cities teacups
are left untouched
children fly their kites

When this war is over
I want to visit your butcher shops
buy flowers in Kabul
drink mulberry juice from the well
at Tang-e Gharu Gorge
inhale the mountain smoke
and find myself a troubadour.