Leadership Poem by Akhtar Jawad

Neither dawn is ours nor dusk is ours,
still I go,
from morning to evening,
sitting at a dark street,
saluting every one who passes by,
hoping someone will lit a candle in the dark.
I have a stale bread in my hand,
a shirt of faded colors and below is a lion cloth,
that is failing to hide my ugly nudity.
My children have slept after crying in hunger.
In my hut there is no electricity no water.
One who robbed the nation and was killed,
is called a martyr a great leader.
One the money launderer,
who has bank accounts in the foreign countries,
and factories abroad,
is my gentle leader,
who has made the nation almost bankrupt.
The hunger that had constrained the old man
the monologue, drawn attention of an armored vehicle,
the officer told his men to straight the bent body of the old man,
and ordered his men to see if he is an enemy's agent
or a terrorist.
The missing person was at last found behind the bars
of a mental hospital.