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Kabul, Afghanistan
« I have come again and am shining like gold on the dusty road after years it is not the smell of soil it is the smell of my birthplace. » —Mujib Mehrdad, The specks of birthplace
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A short story by Mohibullah Zegham (from my first collection of short stories “Hill in the Human”) Translated by Rashid Khattak It was a market day. I had loaded 16 sacks full of potatoes in a truck and... media_text
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My heart is burning, Every time I hear your name_ Wished I hadn’t been born; It really gives me such pain. How much you suffered! No one knows_ How much were you tortured!... media_text
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Your old life ~Jelaluddin Rumi You remember the tale, media_text
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For Khorshid, whose name means Sun It’s always the sandals that are left on the scene, media_text
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I promise I won’t leave you again, media_text
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I am with you wherever you are, media_text
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دلم میخواست برای تو در آسمان ماه میبودم
برای دیدنت عزیز مثل شب سیاه میبودم دلم میخواست به راه تو مرغ هوایی میشدم برای پر زدن بتو بهر سو راهی میشدم دلم میخواست برای تو ابر میبودم قطره قطره میباریدم... media_text
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این منم آری منم اسیر زلف و روی تو هر جا روم من در بدر هستم به جستجوی تو media_text
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Can literature accept social responsibility? Some say that the arts should be purely arts--nothing else, that writers should only serve the gods of beauty and joy. In some cases, this makes sense, particularly... media_text
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حالا media_text
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من آن گل سرخم
بلی آن گل لاله رویم به در و دشت چشمم چو پیاله اندر دلم داغیست از هجر غم یاری آنکه گذاشت من را با اشک و غم و ناله برگ برگم پریشانند چون چهره ای حیرانم ... media_text
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