neda

an unmarked grave,
for one we know,
her uncensored death,
has gone to show,
the price we pay,
for liberty,
and the bloody ways,
of theocracy,
as her mother weeps,
and then, she sobs,
for her daughter's life,
from whom they robbed,
and now she's wailing,
as the guards, they frown,
no longer able,
to block her out,
and soon their nightmares,
will begin to hound,
with their every glance,
at the bloodied ground,
firing as though,
they defend the crown,
the one against,
their rule is bound,
and oh how far,
thirty years can go,
for the fraud they ended,
is what they now bestow,
and their brutal ways,
to the world they've shown,
and with a mother's tears,
perhaps now they know,
that they've evolved,
and become the foe,
the very same,
that they deposed,
barely a whisper,
a revolution ago.