Rug Weaver

She left her finger prints on her livelihood
while the harsh climate of Afghanistan
maliciously shelled the mountains
A mother of a nation soon to be killed
in a political war of saving face
Her indigo stained fingers ache as she weaves
on a loom her mother used,
and her mother's mother used as well
A dying trade because urbanization is the new
breeze from the west
Still, she toils, she breaths into the saffron stained wool
and weaves a web of magic sights
She too, heard a whisper say
a curse would be upon her if she stay
But unlike Camelot, her home is erected on flat land
Images of towers are only mythical creations heard in stories
men tell while smoking shiesha
When she is gone, the merchants will take her to their shops
and a myth will be passed on
People will smile, breathe in her ghost
while her fingerprints turn to gold
under bare feet