Mujahidin

I wrote this poem years ago, but no more than 10 years ago. It was inspired by the complex position of the United States in relation to the Soviet/Afghan war and the war post-9/11.  It's about a faceless, shifting figure of an Afghan fighter, sometimes an ally, and sometimes an enemy. Adding to the irony is the fact that the most recognizable leader of the most polarized faction is now physically faceless, I feel compelled to share the following.


In pockets of our country, there are hypersensitive, everyday Americans who react strongly to calls to patriotism, spreading stories rooted in truth about horrors - perpetrated by 'them' -  that have been documented 'over there.' As a sensitive person myself, I was really disturbed by the Rolling Stone article about the U.S. soldiers who dismembered civilians and collected trophies. And I can't imagine what we look like to them. War is hell, but it's unavoidable.




"Mujahidin"

Of this discourse, sing to me

Actions battled ‘cross the seas

My terror,

Watchman mujahidin

In the night, committing deeds unseen

Of this most distressing tragedy

Embattled, the land’s viscosity,

The airy, nymphs

Do not offer virginity

The soul does not catch

the tree of Eternity.

O, warrior,

Tell me you cannot see

This most horrible duality

His, and their voices circle

Of this Unspoken mockery,

O, mujahidin,

now I see

How terror ever came to be

of the callosity

My fingers bleed.

My forsaken, mujahidin.

(c) LW