نادیا انجمن

“I'd like to grasp the word home, and with it barricade
sorrow's path as I devise another road.

Life's vines demand irrigation, but I
want to drink tomorrow's worries like wine.

I'd like to flush even shadows from moon's fountain;
to paint cypress trees and meadows fortune-green.

If I invite the sun to this scene, the light will reveal
that my garden is the envy of jewels.

Time will write the tale of my life's toil;
but I'd like to fill history's chest with gold.

If my voice could be celebrated, my songs nursed,
I'd gild every notebook with elegant verse.”
― نادیا انجمن

“Music makes no sense anymore—why should I compose,
I am abandoned by time whether I sing or am still.

When words are poison to the tongue, why taste?
Stifling songs is my abuser's strongest skill.

No one anywhere notices or cares whether
I cry, whether I laugh, whether I die or am still

here in this captive's cell with Grief and Remorse;
why live, if my tongue is sealed, still.

Slow down, heart that leaps to great sweet spring,
my broken wings will temper this temporary thrill.

Though melodies drain from memory, stale with silence,
songs waft up from soul-whispers still.

One thought of the day I will break the cage
makes me croon like a carefree drunk until

they can see I am no wind-trembled willow tree—
an Afghan woman wails and sings, and wail and sing I will!”
― نادیا انجمن