Poems of Zarshid Zaryab (Afghanistan)

Biography of Zarshid Zaryab

Zarshid Zaryab was born in 1385 (2006) in the green and mountainous district of Rustaq, Takhar Province, Afghanistan. She is the daughter of Abdul Wadood and grew up in a family somewhat connected to writing and literature. She was raised in a place where both history and nature hold many untold stories.

From the beginning, it seemed her life was connected to light and words. At the age of six, she started school with excitement and a strong desire to learn. Over the years, she studied with dedication and reached the tenth grade. However, just when her passion for learning was growing stronger, political changes forced the schools to close for her.

But for Zarshid, this was not the end — it was the start of something new. She believes that life is about change and growth. She remembers this meaningful line:

“Life is a reflection of nature’s essence;

Where there is no change, call it non-existence.”

With this belief, she did not give up. While continuing her studies through an online school, she also turned to the world of literature. Today, she is not just a student — she is also a poet and writer. She writes free verse, Nima-style poetry, and short stories, sharing the feelings and spirit of her time.

Along with writing, she recites poetry in a warm and engaging voice, bringing her words to life for listeners.

Zarshid has also been active in cultural work. She was once a member of a cultural committee in an educational institution and is now working as an executive member of the “Sabzmanesh Foundation.” She understands that the path of women writers in Afghanistan began in the 1340s (1960s) with pioneers like Ms. Magha Rahmani, and today continues with her and others of her generation.

Looking at the past and hoping for the future, Zarshid Zaryab is trying to leave a lasting mark through her writing and voice — a mark of awareness and strength.

The Pen

Write, O pen—though you are restless,

deeply troubled by the injustice of your kind.

Write, for this home is разрушed from its very foundation,

and the blood of young dreams is flowing.

If your voice dares to move

among what is called good in this world,

your words will be judged

as the worst of all.

Write of the rulers,

the oppressors,

the false pride of these people—

or at least leave a trace

of the conscience that has fallen

into a deep, endless sleep.

Write of empty hands,

of eyes filled with tears,

of a heart overflowing with unfulfilled hopes.

Dance, O pen—

a sorrowful dance

upon my dreams.

Remember Abida—

that girl who set herself on fire,

along with the tangled harvest of her hair.

Write history, O pen.

Leave behind, in your bold lines,

a trace of me—

my footsteps.

#Nima-style

***********

My Own Self

One night, in a dream, I saw myself.

I called out to her—yet she

was deeply worn,

far, far away from me,

her wings torn and wounded.

How heavy her gaze was—

full of silent complaints of me.

Within her bag, she carried

so much pain.

Tears trembled in her eyes,

her lonely soul was shaking,

a sharp loneliness circled around her,

and I felt she feared the endless dark.

Her mind was filled with stories—

quiet on the outside,

yet inside, a storm was rising.

In her thoughts, I saw images of myself.

I paused, then asked again,

“Why are you like this?”

But she had no strength

to answer me.

She raised her hands,

gave a gentle wave,

and said, “God be with you,”

then drifted upward—

into the depths of a whirling sky,

over the clouds.

My throat tightened with sorrow…

In that moment, I found myself,

and very soon I knew—

it was me

within the dream.

#Nima-style