Badgir Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Badgir

Heard poem of "Four Walls"
Showed demands forcing us.

The poet, tall, black
Had a bush on his head.

Kept his hands in pockets
Read fast when recited…

Audience was simple
But content was great.

Feel flying plane
Soaring up, straight
Feel a kick at the tail;
Engine is unable
I may sink right away
If go on in same way,
May crash, bam, am dead.

Have learned to recover
Push the nose, turn to side
And go down in spin
And spin and spin;
That helps me pick speed.

Now, ground nears fast,
It seems like climbing
Coming up, as racing;
Will be killed if crash.

"Recover"
Is the word
I slam on rudder
Turn to side that rotate,
Direct nose in reverse
And pull up to level.

It works and I am safe;
The same with my plane;
Feel the joy in danger.

In movies, on silver
See planes doing same
Some land to be brave
Some crash, fire, burn
Killed in war is hero…

Audience ouch and sigh
Silently, I smile:
"You, the fools…"

But they are innocents
Watch the film; unaware!

Life is game
Foolishness
For us all…

Some play for the gain
Most of us are preys.

Recall fights in the net
And inside prisons
Gladiators…
Fighting to kill friends
Just because…

What a game!
What a shame!

In Yazd and Kerman and
Most houses in deserts
Don't use gas for A/C
Use brain instead,
Build "Bad-Gir"
(Wind catcher.)

Yet, in the cities, we
(The advanced and modern,)
Make fun and laugh at them:
As "Nomads and Backward; "
What a game!
What a shame!