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PersianNadia
Dedicated to Nadia Murad and all the suffering girls in the world.
—October 2018
Religions in the sky;
No one of name and of any prophets sent you hellos, greetings, or endings.
Come hug yourself, run away from the phonemes, caressing the moments in congestion . . .
You were called an angel; you were an angel.
Your wings could have been seen in the sky when we ate three meals.
O night stories, lullaby, and dolls!
She was not prostrating, she used to sing in the veins.
She was frightened with the teeth’s chant through the crossings of the borders . . .
She used to take the border by her teeth.
The three meals were not reduced and the veins were flowing from the alleys of the village.
Murad, Ninawa, and Nadia, the girls’ enchanting song.
We have been stomping and dancing in distant lands while you were figured in the rumination of the seasons.
You started from the cold, from the naked footprints of Ninawa.
Ninawa is with Nadia.
Ninawa used to pass the river, unloading the boats.
Your transduction was emptier than feelings and our three meals were not reduced.
We wrapped the peace in our bundles . . .
Kill us in space, without gravity, peace, or war.
The space is more beautiful than us, you are buried in starbursts and another star is born . . .
Every day three meals, every day unscathed hands.
A whisper, whispering in your brain: “I died as a mineral and became a plant . . . ”1
A girl in front of you, the girl of shiverings of celebrations and pleasures
She stands, she is lying on the womb of stepmothers
And a child who threw stones at you. 
1Jalal ed-Din Rumi (1207–1273). Translated by A.J. Arberry
Contributor’s notes: Seyed Morteza Hamidzadeh
Contributor’s notes: Negar Emrani
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