Ah, the deceit of winter—
Joy in life
Has dwindled down
To mere survival.

And yet,
Poetry still exists.
The moon still exists.
In the palm of the ocean
Pearls are still
Waiting to be found.

Though sleep has spread,
Wakefulness
Remains beautiful.

They shatter the torches.
They erase the stars
With black pens…

To see tomorrow,

We must awaken—
Before we are
Awoken.

A man became our mother,
With his gentle hands
He caressed us.
A song of hope on his lips,
In a tent among the tents of night,
Joy began to sprout…

O dear mother,
O kind man,
At last
We will reach the house of the sun.
You will sit.
And we will tell a memory of cold
To you.

Note: This poem was written from inside Lakan Prison in Rasht, dedicated to “Manouchehr Fallah,” a political prisoner held in this facility, who has been sentenced to death by the Revolutionary Court on the charge of moharebeh (enmity against God).