My Lamb Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

My lamb

Was I four? Seven's half?
I had goats, baby lams,
To me they
All, dear, toys, and games.

I fed them until fall,
They grew to be large.

They played our old game,
And hit me, I was hurt,
I escaped to stop,
Was weak and unable…

But still,
In my heart,
I love them,
Loved them all.

I went out and returned,
Saw my dad with a knife,
And hated my father,
It was red with blood.

From then and after,
I hate the murderers.

I hate the murderers,
Who? And what?
Regardless!

I hate the murderers,
If killing the mankind,
Or the beasts, any bird.

I hate to nurture hate,
But in me, grow hate,
I hate the murders,
When victims,
Are little children,
Or pregnant women,
Refugees displaced! ! !