Saffron City Press

Ahmad Morid

Afghanistan

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Exiled on top of Alburz

Snow, like daggers, slashes my skin 

Staining the ground every hue of red, my body’s invention

My tears don’t fall, they just accumulate on top 

Hope is shooting a beacon from my chest 

I see a shadow a million times bigger than me 

I look up and see Simurgh 

She heard my cries 

She saw my blood 

And she felt like my beacon 

She lands and I sit up 

Beauty in every feather 

a living mosaic flapping her wings 

She gives me one feather and then flies away 

“Help me” I scream this time but she doesn’t pay me mind

I burn the feather immediately and shove it in my heart 

I pull myself up and descend the mountain 

The feather still burning 

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Ahmad Morid is a 17 year old self taught poet and artist; his work can be found in many journals including mosaic lit, malu zine, and other magazines.