“His lips, ain’t they, half-split, bursting poppy pod!”
Jeered semen-high war-lords, at a twirling Ali
“A barefaced angel, no less than sex-God!
Women’re to farm litter, and boys, ecstasy”,
How sound, is the substance of pederasty!
Footloose and fancy free – Boy Play, Bacha Baazi…!

10 years of reckless boyhood, lavished, on Kabul’s streets
“Better be a well-fed play-boy, till the sin of puberty
Come! Don a belled skirt and chemise, wiggle and jingle to our manly beats!”
Now Ali’s a breastless Alia, bare to bone, that latent lady
Whose buttocks bounce on lusting hearts, spark exotic fancy!
No more, man’s travesty, under lock and key – Boy Play, Bacha Baazi…!

When lap-dances die down, on looming manhoods galore
And hunger seeks more, of unwary whore, in half-lit inns, on bended knee
Achilles’ heel shattered, by many a lovelorn riotous paramour
If rape be their orgy, gang-rape, the zenith of revelry
“Oh! How they scrape out their woman, concocted in me!”
In the throes of manic machismo, squandered, that lost boy called Ali
“A tight anus after all, what they want of me – Boy Play, Bacha Baazi…!”

“A heroin sniff, 2 $ or some rice, to my heart’s content, soul’s sacrifice!
Ain’t it kindlier than, prejudice of faith, unrequited gluttony?
Could better be, a castaway boyhood’s price?
There’s none so blind, as those who will not see!
Hah! Travesty, of my society
Why my bleeding rump, is just for me – Boy Play, Bacha Baazi…!”

© 2016 Vikas Chandra