ببین، اگه تو زندگی با پارتنرت مشکل داری، به من نگو. من بهت میگم برو جدا شو
خطرناکم اگه امشب نری خونه
به من، سیمرغ تجاوز دادن و سیمای لخت
چه بلورین سهم من شد، عاقبت این جام کفر
به من کابوس بخشیدن بجا سوت و دست و هورا
به من فرصت دیدن دادن اما وسطِ کورا
درونم تخم غم کاشتن وسط قلب اهورا
به من معجزه ای دادن وسط قرن حسودا
من از سهمِ خودم قهر و شدم هرزه
منم همون بی ادبه، کسکش بی مزه
حالا که مرگِ من قانون این زندونه بی مرزه
منم خون میریزم هرجا که بیرزه
English Translation:
I’m fine like this — just like this
You go be yourself
You go be yourself
You go be yourself
Gather your skeleton up
And don’t mess with the cleric
Our fate’s been a wedding tip — a hollow cheer
I’m the daughter of this hell
Whose hands turned sadistic, whose work grew cruel
Yeah, my father — instead of a tongue
Had the sting of a scorpion and a cobra
⸻
I don’t know what part they don’t understand — growing up in Ekbatan isn’t a joke. There are no Shirazi jokes there, no Esfahani laughter, not even the smell of Akbar Joojeh’s rice. Only the sound of childhood bones cracking under the weight of concrete walls, walls that fall on you every day on your way home from school. There, you learn to claw yourself out from the rubble with your cracked fingernails, piece by piece, because no one’s coming to save you. At night, Farid Lotfi slept in a real coffin, and in the winters, we skied in Dizin together — but every morning, one of us was gone, taken by a plane, or by Azrael himself. Tehran — the city where if you don’t kill, you get killed. Not by someone’s hand, but by routine, by smoke, by the weight of time — by breathing air thick with rage and judgment. Tehran’s kids are tired — of honking horns, neon lights, and the repetition of hours that never pass. Even our prosecutor’s scared of us, like Tataloo said — because we, the children of Tehran, are made of something no court can understand. And then, across the ocean, under California’s burning sun, you’ve got men in designer jackets and Santa Monica accents, hunting for twenty-year-old virgins to import from Iran. It’s not that they don’t want Californian girls — they do — but only the ones who still smell of “free.” The same ones who smile while saying “Woman, Life, Freedom” — and whisper, “How beautiful… for business.” Here, that slogan’s just a pretty frame on a Los Angeles gallery wall — they make dollars from it, not change. And me — in the middle of all this — I’m gearing up for war. I’m afraid. Afraid of losing consciousness, of that hanging second between being and not being. My therapist says, “Breathe, stay calm,” but how can I, when every time I close my eyes I hear the bones of my childhood breaking again? Maybe anesthesia is just another form of Ekbatan. And listen — if you’ve got problems with your partner, don’t tell me. I’ll just tell you: go get divorced.
⸻
I’m dangerous if you don’t go home tonight.
They gave me the Simorgh — and a naked image of myself.
What a crystal curse, this cup of blasphemy they handed me.
They gave me nightmares
instead of whistles, claps, and cheers.
They gave me the chance to see
in the middle of the blind.
They sowed seeds of sorrow
in the heart of Ahura.
They gave me a miracle
in an age full of envy.
I took my share of rage
and became obscene.
Yeah — I’m that rude one,
that tasteless bitch.
Now my death’s the law
of this borderless prison.
I spill blood wherever it’s worth spilling.
shirin bolourchi 