Heads For Prison Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Heads for prison

Long ago, when was child,
Not just child, too small,
Less than six, around five…

Had turned to victim so
No more was in palace.

Flood forced us migrate
So, lived in small room
In quite old city, Isfahan.

I had to go outside,
A sort of child labour,
Also, to earn, little…

Perfect was shop owner
Sold oil lamps, my master
Wicks gave light with flame.

He mended pots, plates
Of our poor, clients,
Drilled holes
To sew them with wire,
In that way solved puzzles.

He mixed the lime powder
With the white of the egg.

Robbed it over cracks
And smoothed with fingers
To made them look new
Pots, plates of china or clay.

But always the repaired
To me were like the bird
By the force sent in cage.

In times sit, listen, think
Of those days, shop, repairs,
Comparing with White House,
Who repairs after this goes to jail?