The Red Street

 

(In Memory of  Neda Agha-Soltan)

 

The streets are broad in Tehran,

thirsty for sustenance;

soldiers of the supremacy

will provide it

full measure,

not with water

but with blood,

running like a river

into the gutters of Kargar Avenue.

The colors of oppression

are shades of red,

sprinkled with droplets

of fear and grief,

piercing like a lance

the heart of hope,

strangling like a rope

the throat of faith.

As innocence dies

on the ruby road,

the masters of murder

sit in their tents,

feasting on tea,

pistachios and dates,

secure in their falsehood,

oblivious to their crimes.

These are the times

of suffering and sorrow,

as desolation reigns

in the soul of Iran.

 

© John M. Marshall