The Calendar Cannot Rest

The Calendar Cannot Rest

S. Rouzbeh

Three days passed,

seven days,

forty days…

Six months went by,

seven months,

and now

for two hundred and forty days

the calendar

has worn black

around your names.

But we

have still found no peace.

How could we rest

when your laughter

is missing from the alleys

and the night

still walks the streets

in those same boots?

We neither forgive

nor forget;

not out of hatred,

but for justice.

For forgetting

is a curtain

drawn over the hand of crime,

and we

will not let

your blood

stay hidden in the dark.

They killed you

because you were young,

because you were true,

and wanted justice

for everyone.

Because you loved the people,

because at night

grief at oppression

would not let you sleep.

Because you were kind,

and kindness

in an age of stone

was a grave crime.

Because you wanted this soil

for growing,

not for graves.

Because you loved Iran’s future

before it

had arrived.

Because you had purpose,

were free in spirit,

and loved light

more than darkness,

day

more than night,

and life

more than

death.

And for precisely

this offence

they took your lives.

If you were angels,

it was not

because you had wings;

it was because

amid so much darkness

you remained human.

Your blood

did not stay on the paving stones;

it became a red line

beneath the word freedom,

so in the onslaught of night

we would not lose our way.

You bright laughter,

you breakers of the night,

you whose names live on,

you children of Iran,

Know

that you live in our hearts;

in our memory,

in our voices,

in every step

we take towards freedom.

We neither forgive

nor forget;

until our final breath,

until the roots of oppression

are torn from this land’s soil,

pulled out,

and darkness

has nowhere left

to hide.

With your

own blood

you bore witness

not to death,

but to Iran’s life:

Iran is alive,

Iran will endure,

and out of this night

one day

will rise

into the light.