What if they never drop blood on hot sand?
What if they worshiped the art,
Worship the beauty of the land?
Instead they build tanks with the hands of a sculptor,
Turned palettes to payloads, let paintbrushes falter.
But the soil remembers—the colors, the scent—
And every bomb dropped is a prophet misspent.
War torn, old men
Still fighting demons from the past
Why not let the youth, decide at last
They inherit scorched prayers and a half-burned map,
Fed on martyrdom myths and generational traps.
But give ‘em a mic, not a military class—
They’ll freestyle a future the old guard can’t grasp.
And now we are again in the trap
Seeing the fire from the sky
Seeing the beauty of it all die afar
While prophets sip silence from platinum cups,
And drones write eulogies in data and dust.
We stare through the flames at a heaven denied,
Where the angels wear flags and the truth’s crucified.
Where is your history?
Where is your people?
Suffocated from the lies of the powerful man
Buried in textbooks that bleed when you scan,
Twisted in tongues that forgot where they stand.
They renamed the ruins, called conquest a plan—
Then sold our past in the market of man.
Stand up now and fight
Or repeat the failure of the past
Live up to the reputation of a once beautiful IRAN
Let the youth wear the crown made of cracked martyr bone,
Build a new dawn where the tyrants aren’t known.
This ain’t just protest—it’s prophecy’s call:
Rise like Persepolis—refuse to fall.
Maybe, your dreams can come true
For the youth and the women are the future
Of a revolution of culture
Let the veil fall not in shame, but by choice.
Let the classrooms echo with every silenced voice.
Let poets, not generals, write what’s remembered—
And may the fire burn holy—not just embers.
Sinister †Publications 
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