The Dusty Roads of Kabul

In the dusty heart of Kabul, my old yellow taxi is my only companion.

I look at the empty passenger seat and see shadows of what used to be.

My daughter should be in class right now, not hiding her dreams at home.

The price of bread rises as the sun sets over the Hindu Kush mountains.

I drive these streets, searching for a future that feels like a ghost.

Every turn of this wheel is a heavy prayer for a better tomorrow.

Until then, I will keep driving through the dust of our memories.