The Killers - Poem by Nassy Fesharaki
Was Ernest Hemingway too great?
Let it be a question, you answer.
I, like him, love to walk with head up
Chest front, crazy, hunting hunt…
Not to kill, but to see inside-out…
Imagine he watching a bullfight
I am in stadium in Kabul, watching a trial
All seats full, some go round and sell gum
Or water, chocolate…some RVs, Taliban
And the man, his hands tied; covered eyes.
A man in big turban, has paper and reads on
I recall the poet named Bidel
His poem on brain “so small” and turban “why so large? ”
I can feel, ask questions, but do not know Pashto.
A western who must be journalist, is sitting in corner
I keep far, no approach. If I do it can end in my death.
Finally the culprit, if true, is dragged and then shot
With the long speeches he must’ve emptied even bones.
Mass runs down and gather round the cars…
The scene is like bullfight…Hemingway’s.
I just read his work called, “The killers”
I enjoyed his play with the words for ‘Nigger’
Sam, and Cook, and comments…
They have roots in lack of interest.
The Nigger, as is showed
Has been long
For long time, been abused.
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