A poem by Abol Froushan
Would that I have told you my sister
how that euphoric spillage of feet marching
fist face over the pavements and streets
and howling squares daubed in green
would only end in tears of blood
alone on the rooftops crying out
for the grace of god to save us
from our foes and the woes of standing by
catching tirades of night raids on the neighbours’ house.
Save your tears for the coming flood.
In Spain eighty percent are Marias,
in tomorrows iran there shall be as many Nedas.
Save your tears for the coming flood
washing green rivulets in rivers of blood.
This is it, the tricolor of your mother’s grief
green for the movement, red for the eyes
white for the hope
