I want to have my poetry book / In the front seat of the car / And wear glasses that will let / Me see all men / Changed to women. / I don’t care who says what.
I can’t tolerate the hot weather at all. I hate it! I don’t understand what people say in the hot weather, and I can’t talk. If you want to talk to me, make a date in the winter. I am not to blame.
I love you, River!
Let me kiss your arms—
My identity is hiding somewhere in the kitchen / Where destiny told me to be. / I don’t know where it is / If you look for it / Maybe you could find it…
In the palace there is a grave / The grave of a kind man / Where I empty my pains / It is my guest house / I rest on the soil / There is a picnic of my sorrows
The first time I heard about email was on the BBC program. I sent a letter. I think it took twenty days for the letter to be delivered. I didn’t know what email was. I thought it must be an electronic pocket with a metal board and a plug to switch it on, and then you could write with a pen. I thought maybe the pen was metal too. It seemed crazy that someone could receive mail in one minute from all around the world.
I am a writer / An Afghan woman writer / But no one cares for my writings / No one reads them here / It is a crime / For a woman to write.
For building a wall in front of my wishes / For you beating me / For forcing me to marry / For you blaming me, for not having a son / For playing with my feelings
My dear brother and sister, Democracy is an unlucky bride in our country, because there are no good examples. It is our strange friend because we don’t know what Democracy is.