The beast is still alive.
It is inside the house.
It is in his heart.
The beast is yet alive—
See, it is in the yard, forcing me to work hard.
The beast came alive when the angel died.
It’s been a long time.
The Taliban have gone, but the true beast is still alive.
The beast doesn’t read poems;
he doesn’t love the rain, but he drains my veins.
He sits on the corner, commands me to be alive.
The beast is near—
he is in the house.
He wants me to be alive to do his yarns.
The beast comes close.
He thinks me a clown, his claws crack my soul.
He wants me to die alone.
The beast ruins my being.
He enjoys my pain.
He doesn’t care for my heart’s cries.
The beast made a rule—
goes up and down no matter.
It’s his circle of life.
It’s his room. It is his right,
and any words from my side come to him as rude.
The beast just arrived. I shake inside, wait to survive.
The beast is a grown child,
doesn’t know how to talk.
He knows how to eat,
how to hit and how to walk.
The beast is here.
The beast is near. The beast is real.
Ahh, the beast can be
an Afghan man who is still alive.