commander of the faithful

Mullah Omar
how many young girls
did you satisfy
worshipping inside Kandahar

with your long beard
covertly pressed
and unsheared

against the sad window glass
missing every class

cracking under the afternoon weight
of narrow-minded hate

and how many sensitive folds
did you manage to count

was it a forward-leaning
or a backward mount

holding your penis
like a mathematical genius

looking at the sad night sky
watching the brilliant planet Venus
flying by

rising high over Afghanistan
like a troubled man

waiting for tomorrow
while sipping a perfect glass of sorrow

on your way to the frontier
a burning memory and a tear

a half look back with your single eye
and not a mother fell down to cry

Mullah Omar
if you're really dead
buried in a simple shed
you won't be back to Kandahar