By weone on Skatehive
Listen O Reed How ye cry From cutting... Iran is the reed bed, & seperation is her name. Since they tore her, From garden of her, Longing. Every feast & Every funeral, Sounds the same. Reed says: I was fire, They called me smoke. Reed says: I was love, They built me a cage. Since the day the mullahs, Locked the garden's gates. Every nightingale, Hath sung in a silent rage. End Subject: This poetry highlights the suffering of the people of Iran in a metaphorical sense. www.freepik.com Good Day