Spring thoughts in Farghana
By Dr Akbar Ahmed
The alfresco burial is done
The pipe and the kettle-drum
have sung the warrior to his sleep;
the mourners wail their way
back to the village.
High above,
the mountains which stretch
like a young man’s ambition in springtime,
an iced drizzle starts to speak
of a last snowfall to come.
Soon the passes will be clear.
The boy, not yet twelve,
gathers his father’s breastplate
sword and standard;
his only legacy
to work his fabled visions
of empire and adventure.
A bitter wind squeezes his face tight
concurs a mood
but in his clear eyes
are dreams of faraway kingdoms in Kabul.
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