Blacksmith Poem by Nassy Fesharaki
Blacksmith
On table there’s a bowl; my skull
Soup inside it is filled with my thoughts
Long noodles are tender; bloodline
In my hand chopsticks; wants and likes
I dip in and lick on; no one there to reply
Hungry, confused, I wonder
Who is there? What is next?
In workshop of metro, Toronto
Blacksmith has answer
“Our garage is advanced but still work brain and hammer.”
Where am I?
Dreaming?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/18/2024 11:52:21 PM # 1.0.0.1119
