Nassy Fesharaki (Dec 29 / Iran)
I am told of my ancestors,
They saw a curled scorpion almost frozen dead.
They took the creature out of mercy and compassion.
They left the poor thing in a warm pocket.
Happy of a good deed they went ahead.
“Ouch…” one of them cried and said.
“I am bitten and poisoned by the scorpion.”
I am a hybrid; half Aryan and half Seyed.
Lost in identity I feel John Welch.
Loney-like I may have to choose
A mythic death or a life to lose,
Losing what I never learned:
What is it?
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Comments about this poem (Scorpion by Nassy Fesharaki )
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