Listen O Reed
How ye cry
From cutting...
Iran is the reed bed,
& seperation is her name.
Since they tore her,
From garden of her,
Longing.
Every feast
& Every funeral,
Sounds the same.
Reed says: I was fire,
They called me smoke.
Reed says: I was love,
They built me a cage.
Since the day the mullahs,
Locked the garden's gates.
Every nightingale,
Hath sung in a silent rage.
End
Subject: This poetry highlights the suffering of the people of Iran in a metaphorical sense.
Good Day
