Abbottabad
I remember when
I first came here; the sweet, sweet
Abbottabad air
wrapping the soil, the
trees covered in snow. Indeed,
the presentation
us-perfect, the place
is a dream to me. Many
streams single among
us as if the wind
issues the rope of affect,
as if feeling flew
small, the song he sang
very gay. I admire at
first glance, happy to
come here. And eight good
years fast-forward, so let’s be
very sunny in
the afternoon. Ah,
now you leave me, natural
beauty! Bow, reach the
ears in the wind, my
gift to you some of the tears
of sadness. A heart
heavy said goodbye.
Never, in my opinion,
respect memory,
Abbottabad. In
my opinion, memory:
never respect it.
[via Dutch-Estonian-Arabic-Turkish, Bing translator]
Tags: British Empire, colonialism, haiku, poetry
The Book of Haiku Revelation 