The hue of the rose mourns in Iran, and the scent of longing therein is afar and untraceable. Yet the ink of the Sufi poets remains animated more than ever, being chanted amid the soaring tide of death.
A woman stands elegantly, serene in appearance, yet with a furrowed brow—the mark of courage at her behest. Her jet-black hair bathes in the sun, and within her, the river of virtue meets the ocean of divine. She turns towards what are the spears of tyranny, yet gives little heed to them for flowers mark the ground before her. She mourns the sacrifices, the blood of so innocent a people, and with such reverence to them, her tears buoy their bodies to the glorious horizon of remembrance.
What noble lineage she bears, and deeply intimate is her association with the past. Then, with such haste in desire, she retraces her steps towards the seed that was planted on fertile ground long ago and sows once more a seed to renew and give birth to a long-lost history. The stirrings of freedom, rose to rose, heart to heart, in the land of Iran are breathing, inhaling the gismat of a new dawn, mystical yet apparent, ever near, closer to her life’s vein.
She speaks her truth: the land of Iran has within it a destiny unlike any other, one that will come together from the supernal spirits that came before, those who are yet to be born, and those that have sacrificed themselves.
The resilient lion lies awake, emboldened and undeterred, with readied limbs to fulfil and restore the noble station that befits Iran.














