Sara was going to scream in something more powerful and potent then pain.
Then she experienced a dream, lost consciousness, the cousin of death, call it what you will.
In this lost land she sat there still,
Writing, only seven about an Afghan princess,
Her own life, ravaged by incest,
But she still felt blessed to see the fruit blossom
Poor mother was still serving a life’s debt
Time dictated by war, post soviet,
Pre-Taliban, but still times were rough
Cursed with tragic optimism, still it was tough
Still Sara played everyday,
Climbing tree’s whilst father was out fishing
The clouds were mountains
And the shooting stars were for wishing
One odd, dark day,
Quite cold for Kandahar,
An old bearded man was seen from afar
As he arrived it looked like the death of laughter
His skin looked wrinkled, eyes were sinister,
But to the people he was the village minister
Ordering the immediate circumcision,
Not male, female and related it to religion
A false pretence, a sheer fallacy
But know one dared say it in public you see
Men like the minister had severe insecurities
He had constant power deficiency
The old man’s logic was law,
But in private many questioned what for?
Tribal and cultural heritage was at the core
Along with its justification which went like this:
“If you wrong the wrongdoers
Punishing you is just
And if he rapes you,
He has a right to fulfil his lust”
Sara was scared, but stepped up with courage
Mother was scared too but father too impoverished
A shooting star came and Sara wished
Staring at the mountainous clouds
But her soul felt finished.
The incision was made,
But it took too long
So much agony so her mother sang Sara a song
Everything so unnatural, all of it so wrong
Suddenly life’s cruel twists came to be
Young, beautiful Sara was never free
So much blood, 7 years since her birth
Young sweet Sara returned to the earth.
Sara didn’t wake up.