I once came to a bazaar in Kabul,
What a terrifying place it was,
Rockets flying overhead,
Buildings meeting the air,
And the limbs of children falling down,
Like rain.

I saw a charred doll hit the ground by my feet
And I asked the merchant,

What do you sell to me today?

He was silent.

I see a rug hanging in the corner over there,
And dusty rags over there on the sill,
And a bowl of dried cranberries in the counter.

Can you sell to me but one of those things?

He replies with a “no.”

Mind you,
You will not find much here,
Not while smoke blankets the sky,
Not while blood is the new paint,
And you will certainly not find purity here.

Not while most people have guns on their packs,
Or to their heads.

Not while the streets are filled with hypocrites and cynics.
And while the demagogues shield our faces from the truth.

So I will sell to you that rug in the corner,
Those rags on the sill,
And the bowl of dried cranberries,
But never forget these words,

I say,

Violence is to only rule we live by,


And death is our mascot.