We did not know his name when he got beaten and
dragged away in a painted van,
We did not remember his pain while he rotted for years
in the dark dungeons of Iranian Bastille.
We couldn't decide if his was a JUST cause to rally
We wouldn't want to sign a petition to set him free.
We hear now of his solemn death,
We now find a reason to show our grief.
And in all of this,
I find myself in despair,
ejected, heart-broken, and meloncholy
Where was I? Where am I? Where will I be?
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