The Wind in the Braids

The square is a mouth that refuses to close,

A thousand voices, one singular rose.

They took the fabric and made it a cage,

But they couldn't burn the ink on the page.

She stood on the box, her hair a black flame,

A girl with a shadow, a girl with a name.

No longer a whisper, no longer a ghost,

The one who was silent now speaks the most.

The asphalt remembers the rhythm of feet,

Of brothers and sisters who met in the street.

From the alleys of Tehran to the Caspian shore,

The chains of the silence shall hold them no more.

The history written in crimson and gold,

Is a story of courage that’s yet to be told.

The street is a river of saffron and lead,

For the ones who are living, the ones who are dead.

"Woman," she cries, and the mountains reply,

"Life," says the wind, as the veils fly high.

"Freedom," the echo that will never die.