Once as child in class
I was shocked; one beaten, some cried
Our teacher a young man, sharp in look
In his hand he held box
School was in low town; on Shahbaz
Our parents mixed in Class
Students all shaved head
It was cold, he marched and started:
'I know of the orphans...'
We were kids; on our minds: 'And so what? '
Out of box he brought funny long black pipe
Silvered keys; and played
We smiled, even laughed, looked around
What he meant none could say...
'I know of the orphans...'
He asked us to repeat: 'I lost dad as a child.'
Decades gone; about six, I see now
I saw in Ottawa, I see it in Paris
He told us of Saadi's trainings
Now replaced with Modern
Hey Europe, Hey Nassy, you monkeys
You deserve what goes on
‘This hatred and dislike and murder'
We have sown; we harvest
We are dumb, stupid, in our shells
Rockets are our claims.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem