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The dark rooms of my mind take me to a new place every night,
This place beams of sunshine, with beautiful sight.
This feeling is indeed real, but far from reality,
Still, this place thrives my personality.

This is a dream, but I did not choose it, it chose me,
It is a new era in a different country,
Where it is normal to be a 'she.'
I can't recall the year, but maybe it is 1976 or 1983.

This era, back in 1976, History ribs were still not broken,
The pages of humanity were still not blood-soaken.
That time, mothers worried about her girl,
About what she'll have for lunch or in which dress she will twirl.

The time where footsteps don't dissolve in dust,
When pedophilia, child marriage was considered a crime of inhumane lust.
The time when ambitions were praised,
And healthy children within healthy families were raised.
The time where father, husbands, and men were true protectors,
And not Satan, whose role was of autonomy and tormentor.
The time where women like me and you had power in their ink and voice,
And the institution of marriage was a choice.
The time when daughters were not restricted to breathe fresh air,
And mothers did not gulp in guilt of having a girl as an heir.

This city was none other than the city of Kabul,
Back in the day, in the year 1976, back when the city was a fable.

Convince me all you want,
Tell me I am a wannabe,
But I know a gender apartheid and genocide when I see.

Every day where massacres are happening in shadows,
Still, everyone except people in power can hear the echoes.

Why did I choose this timeline, you ask?
Because this is clearly an injustice, which you call culture as a mask.
I may not live in that land, but those screams drag themselves to my city,
Begging for freedom and asking for our pity.

Why did I choose this era, you ask?
Maybe, because even in my own land being a lady is a frightening task.
The way a girl measures her skirt,
Because her dignity is defined by the length of the shirt.
The way a no feels like an invitation to fight,
And the constant worry of safety is the pain we hide.

You call it culture?
You call it a tradition?
But I know a cage when I see one.

That's all the reason for my choice to stay in that utopian time,
Because as you are reading this tonight,
A little girl is going through a horror, and she can't fight.
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