Tortured Life Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Tortured Life

He spoke and his voice
Was flame but too cold:
"I am called Indian
On my own parents' land! "

Shouted but deep in sea,
Sort of sun, yet, unseen:
"Have nothing in me of
The Bombay, nor Delhi! "

Look-alike of bubbles;
He grew fast to burst:
"Yes, the dumb, unaware
Is shameless with claims! "

In his eyes fog and mist
He spoke with mouth sealed:
"This drum talks nonsense;
Then repeats with pride! "

Reaching for his valet
Showed me bill, ten-dollar:
"See this man? He is who
Ordered with full power…"

Saw Johnny McDonald;
Has big nose, chin-dimple,
Long forehead, and stares,
Beneath him the word: "Sir."

"He hated the Natives
And ordered killing the
Indian in the child;
And that is genocide…"

I heard him whine in sigh:
"How can I call this life?
Having this is insult
And torture to my mind."

Then threw the bill down…!