Their Horns Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Their Horns

Possibly wore my shoes or
Was barefoot and shoe-less
As we, boys, were always
Busy with our own games!

If I did, they, sure were
Old fashioned, with cotton
At their tops, soles, bottom.

Daddy gave me address
And the name of shepherd.
Then, smiled, was patient;
Looked at me, explained:
"Go there and choose,
Select…"

Wanted me to feel that
Had grown and was man.

Thank you, my late dad.
Thank you, my late dad.
Thank you, my late dad.

Shall never forget that
He had his own plan
As father and husband.

He grew animals
For the meet and supply
Of milk, wool and mohair…

But we, as children
Saw little baby goats
And the lambs with no horn
To be our playmates,
Or at best to be toys…

The place, for my age
Was very far away…
But with joy and happy
I ran, with my heartbeat.

I got there and found him
Baby goats around him…

Now looking back at then
Feel seeing the shipload
Of slaves, Africans
Or the kids
British
Very poor, or orphaned;
Shipped over the oceans
To be "Home Children! "

The herd of goats and lambs
That surrounded shepherded
Would never see mothers…

I chose and brought them,
We spoke on our way;
All summer had friends,
Visited farms, plains
For them to eat, be fed…

They grew very fast
Crossed my size and mass…

As babies, I taught them
How to use horns' place
For playing our games.

I was child, unaware
Of nature teaching them
To use horns for defence…

They beat me and I ran
Crying that "It hurts; "
They never had ear
Or acted to be deaf…

Right before the winter
Dad took knife and killed them;
Then women prepared
Food and saved what remained…