Manoucher Avaznia

The Crowned Father

Was the nation's Dad.

He lived somewhere far.

Perhaps, a city:

A huge city:

A lovely place

With clean people.

All his surroundings;

Despite brightness,

Was misty for me

And kids of my age.

He lived out of reach.

We were never told,

Perhaps, out of fear

Or, precaution,

He had been crowned

Like his own father

By some remote hands.

He knew nothing

Of my words and tongue

And nevertheless,

Stood for father.

Each bright morning,

In chill of winter

And gloomy falls

In worn out cloths,

Semi-hungry,

With our little mouths;

Stretched-out hands;

In front of god;

And colored flag,

With a pure heart;

By the force of fear

By different accent

We prayed for him.

Dad's Literacy Corps

Was established,

With other reforms

To teach us reading,

To civilize us;

All in appearance,

Like the good subjects

Of his good friends'.

When poplar twigs

Broke in pieces

During beating

Soles of classmates

Before our bare eyes,

And the pounding hearts,

As they were wailing

Out of killing pain,

With their both feet tied

To a long stick:

Two students held

For Mr. Teacher,

I learned alphabets!

As I was slapped

With outmost power

On left and right cheecks;

And a bright light

Sparked in my eyes,

I was enlightened!

And turned civilized!

And learned how to read!