Nassy Fesharaki

Gold Star - 80,811 Points (Dec 29 / Toronto)

His Hand - Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

His hand

Pass through and across
after call to set time
as arrived must show card
they know us by photos
by numbers…as is a prisoner
as is the animal with its mark
burned or cut…

The old days are long gone
no knowing by tribe
nothing left, not at all.

I sit and look at him,
he is old; my doctor,
his soft hand in writing
is moving and shaking.

When he ends I wonder…

In this age he works and
many youths are searching,
patients have no medic;
for new in this field
only hell is waiting.

And I see
And I think:
“What are we? ”

Topic(s) of this poem: ideals

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Poem Submitted: Monday, December 7, 2015

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