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Poem

The hustle of the
Khyber pass
Dusty 
Dirty
Traffic chaotic 
Pori’s border
Like the ground
Soaking up my foot prints
We move beyond
The bus is silent
In this barren landscape
I look upon the discarded
Shells of war
Interesting
I identify shells
From many wars
Like a walk
Along a beach
After a storm
An high tide
But the storm 
Still thundering
The vision scape
Has pockets of green
So many gums
I could be back
In Oz
A brief stop
Jalalabad 
The men Decant 
I stay
Watching
Looking
Out the dusty window
Engrossed in what I see
The woman and children
All start talking and laughing
At once
The sudden noise
Makes me Jump
I look around
But all I see are ghosts
But free
The influence 
Of men
The men return
So does the silence
We move on
We pass a check point
Then stop
Beside a green river
I sit on the bank
Smoke some hash
With old Coco
He looks just like
The old cameleers 
From the pioneers
We can’t converse
But I feel
A gentle heart
War tired eyes
Mountains loom
Around us
We are about to make 
The push up
To Kabul
We join a convoy
Of trucks
So many trucks
All going up
And up
And up
Never been on such
A huge mountain
And such a narrow
Road
I look down on the
Shells of trucks
That didn’t make it
Up or down
Horns blare
Dust stings my eyes
But I want to see
If I am 
About to die
We plateau
And loose the convoy
Cruse toward Kabul
We stop at the
Biggest refugee camp
The atmosphere is
Stressful
Angry
Suffocating
Claustrophobic
Like a humid
Wet season day
I can’t wait to leave
Continue we do
The end is here
The infamous 
Soccer stadium
Blocks an blocks
Of rubble
The end
Of the road
To Kabul

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