The Author Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

The Author

Was working as a child,
Most of it, can recall!

My boss left around dawn…

Scale, bags, and cash box,
Were cleaned, then set up.

Customers kept coming,
Most buyers were ladies,
All in thin chador Namaz.

Morning needs were simple,
Tea, sugar, cheese, butter…

To them, I, "Small child, "
Was some boy, very wild,
Sure, enjoyed the women,
Femme fatale and covered!

No, never saw breasts,
Arose with ankles, legs.

When readied the orders,
In the bag, rolled paper,
Came time to deliver…

A hand kept the chador,
Other, was stretched,
Exposing her soft chest,
Felt the heart, cleavage.

Hate the Sun, Moon, and Earth
They have killed, buried the
Boyhood and years after,
Old age is worse than death.

Teeth, useless, hair is white,
Grew nose, eyebrows,
Woollies are lobes, ear,
Nothing left of past years.

Instead, heavy head
Is anvil and loaded,
With devil or angel.

Socialize and converse,
With the varied people!

Each of them a teacher
When speak and listen.

Read of Natives' cultures,
No trace of young birds,
Climate gets warmer,
Capitol and murder!

Dip deep in the meaning
Of the words like author.

In their roots find rich wealth,
See the boyhood again!

Life, being, have differed,
Though sky looks the same!

War is there, as always,
Warriors are not same,
Neither are the leaders,
Nor dreams, nor wishes.

Keep asking myself if:
"There can be heroes to
Gallop to correction,
Put behind bitterness? "

Picture some customers
Ask me for watermelon.

For testing, selection,
I flip, squeeze it, later.

Now look at monitor,
Do same with dizzy head.