Tired of the Murmurs of Those Who Have Not Read

I am tired of the murmurs of those who have not read, when pain is a guest in their own home. Tired of the nights and streets of strangers, and a house of stone where God has no life. Tired of the drumbeat of ignorance and the chains of unknowing striking chests… when my dancing and laughter are worth more than the crocodile tears of Kufa. Tired of those who force heroes upon us, the self-appointed saviors and the gentlemen… for in my land, its women and men together are heroes. What good is circling a square when magnificent Damavand stands as our landmark? Tell me, my friend: Would you sell your own home for a pittance so that some never-arriving tomorrow might spare your lifeless body the flames?