Morning

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