Can a Jihad be called against a poem?

My bomber run,

an easy one,

all I had to do was walk

into the crowd and then

pull my chord.

I wish I could have seen

my disintegration,

what a glorious red and white cloud

I must have made.

My shock wave

ripping apart mother and child,

bits of me fragmentary,

shards of bone cutting.

…and my glorious ascension,

72, count them, 72 virgins,

the death I’ve lived for…