I ASK YOU...

Shopping for food,
Her basket dangling…
In it an eggplant
A hand of ginger
And two kilos of lentils
But her hearth will be cold tonight,
And the tears of her loved ones
Unending.
Stoned to death
In an alley behind the bazaar
Done in by the whim of the wind
That playful breeze
Which lifted her burqua hem
A scant inch above
Her slender foot.
The Taliban said
Such a wanton display
Must be unforgiven
And it was the priest
Who threw the first boulder
And exhorted the crowd
To follow suit.
And it was the priest
Who said her blood
Was not on his hands
For his action was the will of Allah…

But I ask you, my friend
Was not that wind
The will of Allah?
And the murder —
Was that not the will of man?