Unsaid

I can see the history that once seemed in the past is taking place again,
Oppressors always took the land they desired;
Now it’s happening to my house we built.
I can’t believe how close I got to seeing this—
I don’t know how the worst can happen after I said it can’t be any further away.

That house was the dream we built for a year,
The money’s savings for more than 2 years,
The year we moved into there.
It’s been 6 years, and the house is no longer ours?

May every rock of that land burn you from within,
Tear you apart until all your regime’s gone from within,
May the clouds rain rocks to your head—
And you stay alive to only thoroughly feel the pain.

How can a country be built with no rules upon?
Every beardful, brainless, is a law enforcer of their own.
Now, to where will go my grandparents?
Who’s taken shelter in that house, and now in clearance?

Now, how can they pay the rent for another house?
When the bloodthirsty run to any remaining remnants of life,
How can the old couple survive that country,
When even the young and healthy are bound to suffering?

Of my words, it will never be enough to justify
The dread of having pretentious, dirty devils in my house,
In which I don’t live; if I did, it was my corpse in a burqa,
And that house a graveyard to a family of a Hazara.