Pen And Pit Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Pen and pit

I stand in the kitchen,
Pot is full of water,
And it sits on the fire.

I observe,
I observe,
I observe.

As the pot gets warmer,
Come to life the bubbles,
First on sides, then after,
Everywhere and larger.

I think of children,
The poor, rich,
Those in reserves!

The war-torn, displaced,
And the schools' killers,
The bullets kill, injure…

Then think of breakfast,
Fried dates and the egg.

Taking the pits, am puzzled,
What should do with them! ?

In the city, they are waste,
Disgusted, do the same!

Remember the slaves,
Refugees, and dispersed,
Enforced life, marriage…

They are like sheep, horses,
Live in camps and cages,
Boots and guns are masters,
Even for living with,
The spouse and-or maid,
Shame, shame, shame,
On filthy killers of freedom.