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


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?



©1999 - 2024  Mary Barnett / Moodesigns