Endgame in Exile

I At eleven, Tehran’s burning blaze, Sleeve rolled high to meet the weight, A Guard’s cold fist—a question raised— A scar that shapes my fragile fate. II At sixteen, classroom doors collide, Boots thunder on the worn-out floor, “Routine check,” their steely stride, Rifles poised like silent war. Her smile hides behind the page, Formulas I cannot solve, I tear her photo, cage my rage— Winter’s frost begins to dissolve. III Seventeen, chalk dust marks the fight, Bishops, knights, and rooks aligned, Till shadows snuff the flickering light, Dreams crushed, erased, confined. IV At twenty-two, Azad’s hall, I face Tehran’s chess command, My mother’s voice, a cautious call, Security strikes its hand. Pieces fall in frozen rows, Prayers lost at border lines, Silent tales the exile knows— A country held by tighter binds. V At airports, stamps seal the board, Squares crossed off the life once known, Chalk dust and cold photos stored, Weights of games I’ve yet to own. VI Endgame looms—a final test, Between the past and what will be, I dream in Persian, holding rest— Sometimes to win is to break free.