War And Tears In Iran Poem by Natasa To

The mountains remember.



Zagros holds the echo

of boots in the dust,

of boys who left with spring in their pockets

and returned as names carved in stone.



In the south, the wind still tastes of smoke.

It moves through broken date palms

and over rivers that once carried

the laughter of children,

now carrying silence like a burden.



Mothers fold uniforms

that will never be worn again.

They press their faces into cloth

as if breath might still be hiding there.

Their tears fall quietly—

salt upon salt—

like a second sea beside the Persian Gulf.



Tehran wakes to sirens,

to the tremor of windows,

to headlines written in ash.

Yet bakeries open at dawn.

Bread rises.

Life insists.



In courtyards, roses bloom anyway.

Their petals do not ask

which flag flies above them,

which border burned last night.

They open to the same sun

that once shone on kings and caravans.



War writes in fire,

but the people answer in whispers—

in poems tucked beneath pillows,

in prayers breathed between heartbeats,

in hands that rebuild walls

stone by patient stone.



The desert has seen empires fall

like tired stars.

It has swallowed the thunder of armies

and kept only the footprints of the grieving.



And still—

beneath the smoke,

beneath the grief,

beneath the long shadow of history—



a stubborn light remains.



It flickers in the eyes of a child

flying a kite above shattered rooftops,

in the old man watering a single tree,

in the woman who sings

though her voice trembles.



The mountains remember.

But so does hope.



And somewhere between war and tears,

Iran breathes.

The mountains remember.



Zagros holds the echo

of boots in the dust,

of boys who left with spring in their pockets

and returned as names carved in stone.



In the south, the wind still tastes of smoke.

It moves through broken date palms

and over rivers that once carried

the laughter of children,

now carrying silence like a burden.



Mothers fold uniforms

that will never be worn again.

They press their faces into cloth

as if breath might still be hiding there.

Their tears fall quietly—

salt upon salt—

like a second sea beside the Persian Gulf.



Tehran wakes to sirens,

to the tremor of windows,

to headlines written in ash.

Yet bakeries open at dawn.

Bread rises.

Life insists.



In courtyards, roses bloom anyway.

Their petals do not ask

which flag flies above them,

which border burned last night.

They open to the same sun

that once shone on kings and caravans.



War writes in fire,

but the people answer in whispers—

in poems tucked beneath pillows,

in prayers breathed between heartbeats,

in hands that rebuild walls

stone by patient stone.



The desert has seen empires fall

like tired stars.

It has swallowed the thunder of armies

and kept only the footprints of the grieving.



And still—

beneath the smoke,

beneath the grief,

beneath the long shadow of history—



a stubborn light remains.



It flickers in the eyes of a child

flying a kite above shattered rooftops,

in the old man watering a single tree,

in the woman who sings

though her voice trembles.



The mountains remember.

But so does hope.



And somewhere between war and tears,

Iran breathes.