And still he dreams in colour
He still sees green
When he smells the fields he lost his sight to free.
A soviet bullet through the windscreen
Burst this mujehadeen's left eyeball
He's not the kind to cry
The bridge between his furrowed forehead and his nose is down
call a contractor's tractor
He leads the blind
Who the seeing have forgotten.
Makes brooms from reeds
But would not sweep away the past
He'd drive again
Once more into the bullet that put his seeing to an end.
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