The world is watching as Iran enters her third week of protests (it might more aptly be called an insurrection) against the death of Mahsa Amini in the hands of the Moral Police. We all want to know: What will become of the protestors? What will become of the government?

As a small token of support to the fearless women and men in the streets fighting for their freedom and their future, I cut off two locks of my hair in front of a crowd of one thousand protesters in Milan.

Now, I am sharing a poem that I wrote in the silence of my room when I felt nothing but sorrow for the more than 154 young people (including nine children) killed by their own government for daring to fight against their oppression. Perhaps, in reading this poem, those that are less affected by the unrest might glance at the pain we Iranians all feel when another one of our children is beaten or gunned down.

Mahsa's Rain

In the darkness of the bloody day

Blooms the blackest rose of May.

Rain, hail, breeze, or shine,

Her bosom stalks the winds of time.

Caught between a thumb and blade,

Autumn’s bloodstain has been made.

The ground-dust rises in revolt;

The showers pummel them to pulp.

Fires storm the marshy fields;

Bullet wounds fall deaf on ears.

Auburn leaves descend in dances,

Casting ‘way long-veiled glances.

The sun awakens enemy camps;

Faceless generals look askance.

Her saintly face at last revealed.

Her black-veiled bosom still concealed.

Pursed lips behold the secret of her nation,

Choked to death by its creation.