No one knew her birthday
But they dragged her like
The goat of their war,
She did not let flames eat her
But called the local radio to-
Recite poetry, its Rumi’s land.

Dari and her beauty eloped with
Uncle Sam's heartless lads,
The land no longer of brave men-
Shovels and rich coal mines;
Today they are editorials of NYT
And international helplines.

Where are the cowboys?
The mysterious eyes?
Why are the muslin trousers-
Red? And why is the pop culture
Hiding under rich black curtains?
Come out! Come out safely!

Do not let them shoot your
Child, do not cultivate terror-
Bonsais. Stop! Stop being poor,
Stop being needy, they’re
Killing you, little, every day,
Your own ****** traitors!

Give a final applaud to their-
Bombing! Get back your land,
Get back the air, water and
Your tomorrows. I’ll wait for
You to come outside the radio,
Its Rumi’s land.