When the eyes of the living hold no more light than the dead
and ignorance makes sport of human dignity,
when the marksman lifts his weapon’s scope to hollow eye
and surrenders his soul to smoke and mirrors,
when a human body falters at the border, barbed,
between fragile meaning and momentary meat,
when tender sons at one stroke become men and no longer men,
then Sohrab dies again, and yet again for each new age.
There is no Rostam left to carry his weight from the field,
not one killer standing among you worthy to feel this shame.
— Zara Houshmand
