In A Hot And Humid Day Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

In a hot and humid day

Birds are absent; sounds are noises
Even the insects, just crickets
My head makes its own music
Scores of death…age…boredom…
Hiss…in the hospital…mental…
And I wait…wait…wait…
For a bomb that will burst…
Result? What? When?

Silent as the wall is, I am,
Reading…writing…
Murals on the walls, graffiti…
Secretly, illegal; the artist on the run
“Hey this is what is in me
Tired, tired of these set rules
Issued without concern, order:
This is bad…that is good.”

Inside me a deprived, thrown over the board
From a ship, in an ocean, vast and edgeless
Cold and heartless, deep
It is copy of the miseries of a refugee
From a capsized ship
Capsized while in search of life
Ending in racism, phobia

They march in the police stations
In the offices and the schools …
If ever there, if dare to step on that land
The land of those Yankees and Gringos
They dug mine inside out
They took the wealth and the knowledge
They abused or wasted it all; left me in the dark
I feel in a well, cave of lost-ness,
This is what was left for the proud owners
But ‘greyhounds’ became the betrayers and the ass kissers…

Pablo Medina says:
“At least once a week I walk into the city of bricks…”
Oh how I see him and the “rain that gathers on the broken street”.