The conflict is far from finished,
yet victory's scent is in the thermals
that lift the child's kite
above the grounded warplane.
Vanity's valour resounds
from clumpy high heels
revealed by a burqa that flaps
along a Kabul avenue.
A blue-covered woman, transcendent,
like an illuminated manuscript,
gazes at a roped gang
of tormentors turned captives.
Men and aged boys cluster
around technology that redeems
their tradition, spreads forbidden joy
from ear to heart to lips.
These crescent moon lasers
pierce the smog of unreason.
The world at large "takes five"
to witness, understand, feel hope.
If you've any comments on this poem, Bryan Murphy would be pleased to hear from you.