You said, “I will return,”

Night came—and you did not.

The sound of terror and death, the merciless bullets—

I ran out without my veil, into the horror of the street.

I cried your name aloud; Mother, you do not answer!

May I die in your place—our young ones have been killed.

Not one or two—hundreds of thousands are dead.

Now I no longer wish to call only your name.

They are all you to me now; every one of them is my beloved.

Among so many bodies, I may never find you.

I have no heart left to bear so much cruelty.

They took even their dead, without honor or dignity.

They crammed them into trucks and carried away the signs of death.

What a bitter silence—as though no one had died.

As if it had all been planned, as if they wait for us to perish.

The world has fallen silent—a silence bitter as death.

My tears no longer come; even my grief has fallen mute.

A mother’s body twists in pain, crying, “O God!”

Cannons, tanks, machine guns—they no longer frighten us.

They are fully armed; our hands are armed only with love.

They kill in rage and fire the final shot.

They tear through bodies, then carry the bodies away…

There are no graves left for these lovers of Iran.

How, then, can I lay flowers upon their resting places?

All the flowers have been torn apart; no garden remains.

How bloodstained our Nowruz is upon this year’s table.

This time it is filled with flowers, filled now with names.

Do not place those shameful verses upon our table.

Raise the celebration and the song—we will reclaim Iran.

This is the final battle. This is the final battle.

With warm and loving blood, we will reclaim Iran.