The Scissors Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

The scissors

In morning, near noon,
Broke fast, am sitting,
Reading and listening,
And learning, joyfully.

Stories are fables,
By many speakers,
All sweet, pleasant,
Different are accents.

Their tongue, one,
From ancient Iran.

I must take and inhale,
All the air, ambient,
Their content, oxygen,
To my lung, in its depths.

Therefore, pay attention,
By using all senses.

Now feel sick with fever,
Raise my voice in anger:
"Oh God, I hate scissors,
That cut us to pieces…! "

Do my best to cool down,
Sit back, rest, regain calm.

Remember the day when,
Like a ghost, our teacher
Ended the demonstration,
Came, settled, recited:
"They use us against us! "

I, as one, felt the change,
With poem that she read:
"Of us is what we get! "

The poem was ancient,
Rewritten by Natel.