Siimply disappeared; what we thought were fears
The bitter heat of rancid nights and silent alabaster days.
We wept for what we thought they lost and all the praise
And salutation in the aft of what is thought today:
have we wound our watches?
When we cross these final turnstiles,
Do we somehow? So bright the ivory prison tiles
In lines to be apprised and counted and each a view
Of hope; well, after all, the goal of every queue
Is evidence, the martyrs’ rites of passage, wailing walls,
Temples long ago destroyed and worshipped aptly in the fall,
While in the report and repartée we appear to stand enthralled
With promises of exoteric meaning, and esoteric premises of ease.
In these three years has anybody wept for us at Evin as in the time
Remembering Badí’s missive blessings condign?
* Evin Prison, an especially notorious and infamous prison in Iran.