Persian Bloom
after the dust, before the fire
Dust.
Darius.
Dead dynasties.
I was raised on echoes.
Names that sounded like thunder.
Names that lived quietly in the mouths of elders.
Folded into tea steam.
Folded into stories that never finished.
Tehran turns.
No glory.
Only traffic.
Only tension.
The low hum of optic nerves.
Concrete cold.
Beneath it, heat.
Circuits crawl.
Signals stall.
Rerouted.
Redacted.
A generation buffering in the dark.
Learning the syntax of shadows.
Learning how to speak in fragments.
In code.
In glances that say more than the state allows.
Persian pulse.
You can’t archive it.
You can’t ban it.
It moves through song.
It moves through silence.
Programmed power.
The Grid breathes.
Not alive, but alive enough.
It listens.
It tracks.
It tightens.
The Song burns.
Not loudly.
Not always in the streets.
Sometimes in a whisper.
Ash to architecture.
Cinder to command.
They build systems from fear.
We build memory from fire.
Legacy is logic.
But logic breaks.
Logic fails when the subjects stop being afraid.
Ghost in the gold.
Code in the clay.
Ancient hands shaped this earth.
New hands rewrite it.
In light.
In signal.
In risk.
I am somewhere between.
Not there.
Not gone.
Carrying a country in fragments.
A word.
A rhythm.
A refusal to forget.
Fireborn.
Not destroyed.
Refined.
Fast.
History accelerates before it breaks.
Final.
Not the end.
The last version of silence.
Past.
Present.
Future.
They claimed stability.
They promised control.
They swore the walls would hold.
But pressure is a protocol.
And the system is screaming.
Inevitable.
- PoetKing, Joe Garvey
www.HouseofFireBorn.com