Poetry · 16 September 2026
Bloody Repression
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A poem remembering the nights of 18 and 19 Dey, the young who were killed and the grief of their families, while holding on to the voice of justice and hope for Iran's tomorrow.
Bloody Repression
S. Rouzbeh
The eighteenth, the nineteenth of Dey:
a night of gunfire and sighs.
The city's heart turned black
as evening fell.
From every alley rose
a cry of pain;
the earth turned tulip-red
with the blood of the young.
From mothers' eyes
a rain of tears
fell softly
on the parched earth.
But the names of those who left
remained alive;
a lamp within
the heart of the home remained.
Since that night have passed
months upon months,
but still those wounds
are fresh.
From the earth above our loved ones
a cry arose:
the voice of justice
will not fall silent.
If blood has dripped
from the veins of time,
hope will not die
in the heart of this land.
Though the homeland's form
bowed beneath grief,
from the ashes of sorrow
a light broke through.
Still the mother's tears
remain upon her cheeks;
still her child's name
remains within the home.
Still the alley wept
in memory of that night;
still the wound of that day
lived within the breast.
Neither will your names
leave our hearts,
nor will your cries
be lost in silence.
Out of this dark night
a path appeared
so that at last
that bright dawn might shine.
For Iran's tomorrow
let hope remain,
for from the heart of night
the bright dawn rises.
S. Rouzbeh
srouzbeh.com