I leave my hair in the hands of the wind.
It doesn’t matter who sees it anymore.
You, the people who don’t blink
When you watch a woman’s stoning,
Why do you lose sleep over my hair?
I am a woman; made of stones
And stoned, before your eyes.
I am a girl; made of earth,
Stepped on, before you eyes.
My hair is not obscene.
The vultures who circle my body
And that of my dead sisters
From Badakhshan to Helmand,
From Delhi to Rio,
It doesn’t matter anymore.
Let the wind take my hair to the heavens
So I can taste freedom.
This woman will no longer tolerate the burqa.
You, whose conscience is gone with the wind,
Let me leave my hair in its hands.
Artwork by: “Reflection” by Sulaiman Edrissy
Art Model: Baran Hashemi
Read this poem in Persian here.