Mending Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Mending

I was born when and where
Mending was a culture.

They mended the clays,
Chinaware, and garments.

We, the boys, were devils,
We used walls as horses.

Grandma wore scarf,
Followed us with needle.

Poor woman, old and bent,
Shouted: "I am tired! "

Of mending our sittings
That were torn sliding,
On the walls, branches.

Trees too must have been
Tired and angry
With us, boys, the monkeys
That used them carelessly.

Now, things are different,
Food, fruits, are packaged,
And cloths are fashioned…

A patch on butt or knee
Is not just from need,
But is sort of mimic.

I recall when the means
Of transport, going,
Was a horse or donkey.

I recall when fruits
Were fresh and tasty,
Right from the trees.

I recall many things…