I came from mountains.
From the memory of تبدیل,
Of change,
Regurgitated from the depths of what may have been.
I came from spring.
From the hope of نوی صبح,
Of a new tomorrow,
Thrown from one not-home to the next
Confused about what may be.
My family calls me their زُو ,
their soul,
But meaning so much more
Their tether to this life.
But they ask:
And what ruins a ruin?
The memories of the past.
And why must you yearn for what you have lost?
The memories they own must last.