March 8th

when my feet burn to reach you yet the wounds on them aren't mending too fast, when the season denies the one day to the Iranian women who demonstrate on Women's Day, and are, therefore, behind bars for asking for their rights, the rights they seek with all their flexibility toward a regime that captures them like little hunts. In all these things I know I can find peace in your writings when everything seems too centralized to hope for a democracy in Iran. It is your delicate words that wash the pain off my body, and heal the scars on my feet. I know I can narrate my images with you. You are after all the one who holds me with all my nakedness, clear, without any shadow peering.

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