It was a room, plastered white with lamps in niches of walls <br />Traces of pencil, and heights with their names, charcoal lines <br />Painters and projectors, the lantern, and the kerosene lamps <br />Grains, the summer wheat harvested after the pain, in hiding <br />From the birds, rats and the bandits, visitors of now and then <br />Out the knife’s blade from horn sheath he reached for pocket <br />Nails, workers’ nails, harder than bone of the lamb and sheep <br />He cut, expertly, short and then the toes, all he well-trimmed <br />Cracks in his dry heels, gorges, he filled with drops, melted fat <br />Of tail of the lamb, a big white circle-like, Persian one, skinned <br />This boy, I wear socks, shoes and cut nail with clipper, not men <br />I am nothing, spoiled boy, inexperienced to touch a man’s knife <br />The dogs, it is said, are friends of man, include also pocket knife<br /><br />Nassy Fesharaki<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/childhood-128/
