اینجا نخستین برخورد شعر با روح است، جایی که مناجات در خطوط مهاجرت نفس می‌کشد. آنچه در ادامه می‌خوانی، نه نثر است و نه شعر - بلکه زخم آوازینی‌ست که از درونِ تبعید می‌جوشد.

📖 عنوان: Prologue — The Letter to Frau Bauer
The Letter to Frau Bauer
(Prologue of “The Divine Self Within”)

Tonight, I write to you, Frau Bauer — not as an applicant, but as a soul that has wandered too long between borders.
The room is small, my desk is covered with translated documents, stamps, and silent prayers. The air smells of ink and late-night tea. Somewhere outside, the city sleeps, but inside me — the boy who left Afghanistan never stopped running.
I do not know who you are. I do not know if your hands will ever touch these papers.
Yet I feel that destiny is hiding behind your name — quiet, waiting, watching me through the folds of bureaucracy.
I came from a land where even dreams needed permission.
Where light arrived through cracks — not windows.
Where a child learned to fix broken things before he could spell his own name.
My soul cracked too, many times.
Each time I thought it would shatter completely, I gathered the pieces — gently, desperately — as if I were suturing my own heart after surgery.
The wounds never disappeared; they became stars inside my chest, guiding me through the night.
You see, Frau Bauer, I am not asking for a chance — I am asking to continue existing with purpose.
To turn the dust of exile into the hands of healing.
To serve children — German, Afghan, or nameless — with the same trembling hands that once dug through the ruins of silence.
I have crossed deserts of humiliation and oceans of waiting.
I have been reduced to numbers, files, and waiting-room glances.
But through it all, I carried one thing no one could confiscate:
light — fragile, flickering, but alive.
So tonight, as I write this letter, I ask only this:
If destiny speaks to you through this paper,
let her know that I am ready.
Not to escape my wounds — but to walk through them.
Not to forget my past — but to redeem it.
And if someday you ever wonder who this boy was —
know that he believed, even in his darkest hours,
that love and pain were written by the same hand.