Last Teardrop Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

In my pot
There’s no sugar, there’s no salt
A poor man’s pot is filled with cumulus clouds

Underneath
The flames of lava, melted hot
Of spewing volcano in my heart and my mind

The bubbles
Turn steam, flap the wings to fly
I’m a shaman with magic of the words, a Magi

To foresee
Coming King and rebel isn’t hard
Not for me! All I need is nation and nice heart

Jam-e-Jam
Can forecast, it is based on a past
Ancient past history, a culture of losing/victory

A Kashkool
The fakir is filled with memories
Donations with the oath, and wishes or curses

And my pot
My Kashkool hanging on Tabarzin
In bazaar, on the road I will shout “Hoo- Ya Haq”

And my eyes
With the last teardrop for a fight
As that pot’s final drop, with a flame or the fire