Persian Courage
In the whirlwind of this darkness,
crowded with dogs of war, sitting
on the wings of swords, sovereignty violated in the
glimmer of smart bombs,
I am Iran, your mother; I speak, hear, feel the abyss and roar of resistance.
The scarred ancient land, bleeding profusely,
Tehran, stripped in its tragic hour, lives on undeterred.
Somehow, somehow, their blood earning them their victory.
You know this country will never be conquered.
Great poets marvel at its epic heroism,
its harvest of lion hearts.
In Iran you see the ancestor of countless loyal sons, and daughters of fire,
fighting the impudent foe.
Glory forever to their fighting spirit.
A nation that stands to oppression must not lament
the loss of its children.
They know the test of history, of enemies
want them to perish, beaten, starving, and a slave.
They hear their predatory scream, tied to the vulture-claws of western barbarism,
with no qualm on war crimes, yet despairing over your will to resist.
You're a mystery, an enigma to them, a lump in their throat.
The pink fascist jackal
with dripping fangs hungers for your oil.
give generously a boatload of oil.
The hosts of Fars land have gone into battle with the new mongols,
swirl like a whirlwind
to throttle the rogue
who will not have your oil, only the
loud bang of your humiliation.
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