They have fixed their eyes on the sky, on the sky filled with missiles. In the midst of shouting, boasting, and distortion, they have lined up opposite each other, eyes still fixed on the sky. The anti-imperialist rich kids, bootlickers from London, Berlin, and Stockholm, are counting ballistic and hypersonic missiles, air defenses, and drones, while the paid mercenaries of “free” world foundations and institutes pinpoint the exact locations where the missiles strike from afar.
But in the narrow alleys of poverty, the children of the working class, the children of the impoverished—those who have neither the time to take pride in national “glories” like rings and whips nor the luxury to beg the commanders of genocide in this age of civilization and capital—carve out their own paths with the tips of their nails. On the walls of suffering and labor, they illuminate the only path to freedom: a revolution of nations for bread, shelter, and liberty.
These slogans have been scrawled on the walls of a poor neighborhood in one of the cities of Isfahan Province, out of the darkness of night, with the hope of blossoming morning flowers—for a roof, for books, for wheat.
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