Weaving Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Weaving

I write, you, the reader,
Imagine, then picture;
A pool with sloped edge
On one side and other
A wall-like, stone-made.

The fishes, dark grey
Come and go, shy away
Unless are very young,
Unaware, can be caught
By currents or the boys.

To the pool are four sides
Go East-West, North to South.

The road is by last two
Where soft edge slopes in.

East is for animals
To enter the water,
To drink and play.

The west is for old men,
By mud wall they stand,
Wearing their long Qaba,
Which are men's overall,
Tightened in the middle
By wool band or a shawl.

Elderly hold Chopoq,
Clay-pipe to smoke
The crushed tobacco,
And chat, talking slow.

Some of them hold a ball
Of the wool or mohair
And spin, make threads
To be used for purpose
Of the ropes or cloths…

This is what village was…

The farmers and shepherds
Had own world and we, boys,
Lived our lives in our world.

In mornings, families
Took few goats and sheep
And handed to shepherd
To take them to plains
And allow them graze.

In the dusk, they returned
While the sun in maroon
Hung over the mountains,
Painting them gold, yellow.

Animals raced for home,
The kids kept calling them
For their milk and caress…

At the doors were women
With the pots and the bails.

Like us in cities, towns
With cashier looking up
And adding tax to costs
While we watch in silence
The sheep, goats, politely
"Paid tax first, then freed! "

These workers of the day
Stood with their hind legs
Spread and women
Reached to end for breasts
To take most of the milk
Little was for babies…

Even wool and mohair
Were cut off or sheared
For the men to spin,
Turning it to threads,
And what was required
For life in the village.