Books On Fire Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Books on fire

It is hard to write right,
Be honest, and forward.

Politics kills thousands,
And people are silenced.

With a keyboard and a mouse,
I raise my voice, want to shout.

The world knows, is aware
Of the Cree brothers
That stabbed in a rampage.

I stop, use my mind,
Full of tears are my eyes,
My heart beats like a drum,
Keeps singing its death song.

What happened?
Why? And the cause?

Soars eagle in the sky,
Flaps wings:
"Why? Why? Why? "

Kids were born in reserve,
No school, future,
Deprived feels is in jail,
Watched TV's daily shows
Saw actors, red carpets
And dreamt of success…

Traveled and researched,
As a guest have mingled
With the poor, rich people
In their tents and castles,
And deeply feel them.

Journalists and papers,
Egoistic, seeking fame,
Print wrong on a canvas.

Stalin choked the cultures
Of the colonized Soviets,
On flame books of ancient
Heated the baths to houses,
To the time of Gorbachev...

Capitalists, Westerners,
In surface talk of help,
To turn Marx into ashes
By killing the Soviets…

No one talks of borders,
New flags and anthems,
Ukraine is an exception.

Media, governments
Are the vicious vultures,
Their hands are extended
For taxes, donations,
To shed the blood of others
In the distanced borders,
And hide facts, sweep them
Right beneath the carpet.

As a friend to victims
I try to help them
To fight these disasters.

Media, governments,
Expand on the angles
That keeps us blinded.

Among the examples
Have Soroush, a poet.

He was born on a border,
Of the Tajiks, and Uzbeks.

The flags and the anthems
Took his home and father.

Such were the stabbers!