Upon my last breath in exile, bury me at home;
under the shadows of Pamir mountains.
The campaniles of Herat.
Bury me below the breeze of Panjshir's mulberry trees,
the orange gardens of Nangarhar,
and the pomegranates of Kandahar.
Bury me beside the saffron fields in Parwan,
and the fight trees in my Kabul front yard,
that are dried-up and vented out of thirst,
like my thirsty soul.
Like the vineyards of Northern Kabul; thirsty enough for one sight,
one mere glimpse, of the motherland.
Bury me so that my soul may rise again,
like the Buddhas of Bamiyan.
~ Yalda Sarwar