Oh, street soul!
I see you sitting there
in your metal box
Near the Blue Bus,
And no finger taps
On your glass pane
Save for drops of rain.
I stop and in dim light
Gaze at your red letters
Which, like the bullets of guards
Shot at the silent marchers
On the green streets of Tehran,
Hit my temples and chest
Hot, all hot.
I go, but you stay
Oh, street witness!
At all crossroads of the world
Displaying yourself
Behind your glass pane,
And no tyrant dare erase
Your bold letters
From your paper chest.
October 14, 2009
