A Truck And A Bullet Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

A truck and a bullet

It is hard.
It is hard.
It is hard.

It is hard to belong
To a land, to a ground
That floats on the blood.

Dear Mother,
My Iran, the ancient,
You are where I am from.

I know you, know your past,
I read and watch, and track
Your news also stories tagged
On daughters, girls-women.

I know of Anahita,
Gordafarid to Mahsa
All fighters, until now.

My lessons and advice
Are Rumi's and Khayyam's.

Feel proud of that cylinder,
The Cyrus's Human Rights.

Read Saadi, memorized
His poem on care, Love.

With Hafez I fly,
With Sohrab, I come down.

With Khosrow I raise a fist,
With Nader, win the wars.

Me? Idle?
Cannot be!

Saw a truck, offloading
The bricks, when sixteen.

I saw the soldier's bullet
Affirming the revolution
In nineteen seventy-nine...

It is hard.
It is hard.
It is hard.

At times see me in a cave
Without a torch or candle
Long are nights, forever,
And cannot concentrate.

Some men took the bricks
And broke, threw them
Hitting a group of soldiers,
They had guns and batons,
Fully covered with helmets.

Mercenaries raised their guns
And addressed the rioters…

Saw their blood scattered
And many fell, wounded.

I was on the bicycle
Saw it all and observed.

It was hard.
It was hard.
It was hard.

Then again, after years
Rose new rioters
And this time a soldier
Killed one of the guardians.

It is hard to belong
To a land, to a ground
That floats on the blood.

Bring an end, help me, God!