-what sweet song-

had rainfall swept

the city streets before 

the fleeting moment froze

within your breast 

when last the burning

bullet struck to pierce your heart––

or soft breeze lingered

through an open space to softly 

cool your olive skin. but—

what sweet song, Neda,

left your mouth to yield 

such blood? 

and so they tell you: "don't be afraid.

Neda, don't be afraid".

06/20/09