Yasmina Khadra

The Swallows of Kabul soared above the rooftops, their wings carrying them to a place where dreams were allowed to exist.

In Kabul, dreams were dangerous, for they gave us something to lose.

Kabul, love was a wounded bird, with broken wings and a fragile heart.

I am saw souls dying one by one, their spirits crushed beneath the weight of oppression.

Life in Kabul was an endless cycle of despair, a never-ending nightmare that refused to release its grip.

In a city consumed by darkness, hope was a flickering candle, its flame threatened at every gust of wind.

In Kabul, dreams became tiny fragments, floating in the dust-filled air.

She was only a silhouette, swallowed by the darkness, her eyes shining with despair.

We lived in the shadows, our voices silenced by fear, until one day we realized that silence was no longer an option.

The city devoured innocence like a starving wolf, leaving only scars behind.

We were the Swallows of Kabul, the silent rebels in a world that had forgotten how to fight.

A city full of flesh and stone, a city where the blind led the blind and the living were as lost as the dead.