Featured Illustration: Shehzil Malik

They call to us from under the Afghan Sun,

their skin bright like amber kindled under flame,

and their voices heavy with dripping characters,

rough edges and beveled lines, black ink

bursting over letters and journals,

for they live by the pen,

writing in an attempt to reach the world outside,

to color ignorance with truth.

Between the bleeding headlines and muddled voices

playing on the TV, the memories of lost souls,

of children and adults, of women and men,

of parents and siblings, of friends and foes,

remain a mere story, wrapped under layers

of piled lies.

And the deceivers spilled blood over their words,

drowned and buried them under hot sand and stone,

and proclaimed that the victims were liars,

wolves hiding in the mountains.