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Sister Nahla runs home
From classes
And Throws her book bag
On the dirty floor,
She seems exhausted
Unbelieveable,
She shouts,
And turns on the old television
An American soldier kills nearly 70 people
near the border of Kabul
The scratchy electronic plays
War is near
Sister Nahla says
tears sliding down her face
She leaves the T.V. on
And runs to find mother
I stare at the television
Waiting for it to be fake
A "prank" is what they call it in America
Nothing...
I go to my room
Placing my pink bag on top of my bed
Stuffing the rest of my clothes inside
We might be leaving tonight
Leaving this horrible place
To our new home
But leaving father behind,
And the rest of our memories
YOU ARE READING
The Journey Home
PoetryIn this strikingly touching poem journal, follow the journey of a young afghan refugee, Ajani. As time passes in Kabul, Afghanistan, the capital and the city which she was born and raised in, she struggles to find serenity for her and her family. Th...
