Still she waits.
Still she burns.
Still her crimson body breathes
upon the heart of the city.
Still she watches.
Still she mourns.
Still her spirit, robed in flame,
keeps vigil on the curb of time.
She lost her beloved
at the hour of the meeting
and when time refused her plea,
she chained herself to place,
but never, never,
unbound her heart from love.
She waited
until waiting itself broke;
until nothing remained
but a single red stain
in the hollow of the city,
in the hollow of time,
where even God
forgot to look.
Still she waits.
Still she burns.
Still her colour runs through the stones—
a pulse beneath forgetting,
a whisper under wheels,
a memory that stains the light.
No rain can cleanse her.
No time can claim her.
She is the one who remains—
the heart that refuses to fade,
the red that will not die.
Still she waits.
Still she burns.
Still she is,
the blood of love,
the witness of time,
the one in red.
.....
For the woman in red, who, for forty years, stood in the same square of Tehran, clothed each day from hat to shoes in the colour of her first morning of love, waiting for the beloved who left her there, and never returned.
