To a Journalist in Prison

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

Meet Iranian Singles

Iranian Singles

Recipient Of The Serena Shim Award

Serena Shim Award
Meet your Persian Love Today!
Meet your Persian Love Today!