Voice Died Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Voice died

“It is my home.”

Voice echoed, found no home, no runway
To land on.

“Imposed guests, you are fighting; my home is in burning.”

Voice thundered as do gales and storms.

“You murdered my mother.”

Colourful in sky, a rainbow
Like before, open armed, hugged the sun
Voice lingered and tears, rain’s remains in cloud.

“You break culture of…”

Exhausted, the voice died
It was an Indian’s.

In Charleston burn churches
Still fight old masters and slaves.