Kaboul (EN)

I went on a journey
In gardens surrounded by cob walls
I touched apricot trees, apple trees and mulberry trees
My pistol in a shoulder holster

My artificial leg slowed me down
I wore a slim-fitting gabardine and an astrakhan hat
My kunya (nom de guerre) had the sound of snow
When it falls on the peaks

A gust of wind had flown from the aircraft carrier
A coupe shuddered with the roar of an engine
In an anonymous street of the Shasdarak district
The tungsten bulbs exploded one by one

A glass of goat’s milk
A smell of mountain pine
AK47 on the shoulder my host was getting impatient
The cobalt sky covered his eyes with shadow

A piece of starry sky from hell
The view over the roofs of Kabul
Two women from the al-Khansaa brigade (Daech’s vice police)
Argued that the moon is made of wrought iron

I answered them by whistling, imitating
The bleating of sheep under the stars
The song of a lute reaches me from the sky,
I wait for death like a deliverance

A Ranger pick-up at the check-point
Displays the stigmata of the bullets
The irrigation systems of the orchards
Moisten the earth far east of Kabul

The front window exploded under fire
The dashboard is stained with blood
A .9mm shell casing lies on the ground
We had hired ten men and their machine guns

The village chief had gone to get tea
The crops had failed
It was raining black bird corpses
The world had become disembodied

Ah, to slaughter the hot morning
Pour it into my crystal glass
Shake hands with a nameless woman
One day of battle against the wind

I threw fresh jasmine petals
In the direction of Mecca
My old boneless Clio
Was hoping under the shrapnel

The flash-bang minigrenades
The bursts of fire on the grass
Death is contraband
I closed my eyes, the silence intoxicated me for a moment
If the sea rises, we will disappear.

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