A School For Forgetting Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

A school for forgetting,

Interviewed CBC,
He answered, I heard him.

Obvious, clear,
Heard him loud,
Spoke, talked,
Of what passed,
What went on.

'To school they took me,
It was jail, gas chamber,
Seemingly, for torture,
To be killed by butchers.

Killed our tongue,
Our culture,
The manner to converse,
Our siblings, and parents.

They erased memories,
The warmth of families.

The school he went in,
Only took, no giving.

Now, David an artist,
Masters in sculpting,
Carves stones to speak,
By shouting, silently.

Ruben bagged all his hate,
Gathered tools, converted,
Went searching in nature,
Found myths of ancestors,
Retold with sculptures.

'The stones in my hand,
Flex like the hive's wax, '
Concludes, says at last,
Very calm, and relaxed:
'In my den past is past.'