'When Iran's Voice Died' a poem by Nancy Abdel-Messieh

While I mused over sweet and sour chicken or beef with green pepper in a restaurant in suburban Cairo,thinking to myself, the air conditioning is too cold,
Iran caught fire.
I came home 9pm Tehran local time
to this:
a young woman shot, so much blood on her face at first,I did not know if her right eye was gone could not tell where the blood was coming from.
But now, this I know:
she stood on Karekar Street a Basiji bullet toppled her entered her heart,and there, she died in less than 2 minutes.
This I know:
Her name was Neda she had brown hair and never thought she would be dead today.
And this I know:
Her father cried out one word in a language I cannot understand,over and over,while her heart pumped blood out of her nose and mouth.
Now
I sit on my bed,holding onto green yarn fashioning a bracelet like we used to when we were 13
3 strands,hold two, knot and pull.
Over and over.
It is not much.
But it makes me feel like I am doing
something.