It’s the dewy woe of morning
Under the rising dawn sun drear
Green leaves sit hush and still
After birds cease worm song
The ants of society twitch in bed
Rub their eyes and try to clear
Away the sand hills of sleep
After birds have flown along.
And elsewhere where birds gather
It’s not the early worms which scatter.
But the wounded and bleeding dead,
The fleeting flicker of freedom fled.
It’s the moment, not outcome, should matter.
Written during the Iranian Election Uprising, 2009