floating down in a DC10
high above your sand scarred landscape.
Bullets were flying in Kabul, even then,
and we could not stay and see
but were removed, despatched, transient.
It was 1982
when I made fleeting acquaintance with you
and I had hoped, one day,
to return. Anew.
But now, the only offering I can make
is to place an orange flower in a green, gold vase
and hope, wish, it might burn bright for you
in this time of stunting, brutal war.
And trust that
in some desert flowered future view
Afghanistan 🇦🇫 might green once more.