This is not a song.

This is not a song. This is a letter. From the scattered. From the displaced. From the ones who carried a country in their lungs when the borders shut. You tried to shrink us. But exile multiplies. You don’t see us — but we’re everywhere now, Boardrooms, campuses, headlines somehow, From lecture halls to global accounts, From underground whispers to international crowds. We speak in accents sharpened by pain, Multilingual minds but the same old name, Iran in the bloodstream, carved in the veins, You tried to erase it — it burns like a flame. We carried culture inside our chest, Ferdowsi breathin’ under bulletproof vests, Cyrus in memory, history pressed Between airport scans and security checks. You showed the world a monster mask, A blackened portrait, distorted past, But we the truth you couldn’t grasp, The living archive you tried to trash. We stood in lines in embassy halls, Cold marble floors, fluorescent walls, Suspicious eyes that judged us all — Forced to prove we weren’t your calls. Passport trembling in sterile light, Background checks in the dead of night, Answering questions about your fight, For crimes we never chose to write. We’re not the regime. We’re not your stain. We’re not the slogans sprayed in vain. We’re not the shadow wrapped in chain. We are a nation split by pain. We rise from the ashes — rise again, From exile dust to the lion’s den, You tried to bury us deep in shame, But we rise — we speak the name. We rise from the ashes — rise again, Scattered seeds in foreign wind, You built the cage, we broke the frame, And still we rise — we speak the name. We started from zero — no safety net, No inherited throne, no soft regret, Just twenty-three kilos of life we kept, And childhood memories we never forget. We learned new languages just to survive, New alphabets to keep hope alive, Pronouncing futures we had to derive From foreign soil where we arrived. A thousand defeats — a thousand stands, Tears in our eyes but strength in our hands, Rebuilding dreams in distant lands, While watching our homeland slip through the sands. We buried birthdays inside our phones, Missed funerals, missed gravestones, Time zones stretched like broken bones, Home became pixels and monotones. And still we built. And still we grew. In labs, in art, in revenue. In code, in courtrooms, revenue streams, In silent rooms rewriting dreams. You thought exile would make us small. It made us global. That’s all. We rise from the ashes — rise again, From exile dust to the lion’s den, You tried to bury us deep in shame, But we rise — we speak the name. We felt the pain in the veins at night, Dark streets flooded without light, Names repeated in whispered fright, Mothers waiting for morning’s sight. You built a system that exports fear, Exiling futures year by year, A nation forced to disappear While you called it order, called it clear. You pushed a people out of place, Turned passports into a trial case, Made borders feel like moral disgrace, Stamped suspicion on every face. We stood beneath suspicious eyes, Proving again that truth survives, We are not the terror disguise, We are the youth that history writes. You showed the world a twisted frame, Equated culture with regime, with blame, But we carry a different flame — Iran beyond your narrow claim. Iran of poets, thought, and art. Iran of science, soul, and heart. Iran before you tore apart The spine of its beating part. This isn’t rage without direction. This is memory without correction. This is love in resurrection. This is generational reflection. We are the censored echo loud. We are the exile unbowed. We are the scattered crowd That turned survival into vow. In London streets we raise the sign, In Toronto squares the voices align, Munich echoes the same design, Sydney chants across the line. From Los Angeles to the Seine, From Stockholm snow to Spanish rain, Everywhere you tried to drain We multiply the truth again. Millions of signatures shake your wall, Campaigns that make your silence fall, Conference doors we block and call Your shadow out in every hall. You tried to shrink the name to dust. We polish it with global trust. You wrapped it in fear and unjust — We lift it clean from rust. Lion and sun inside the chest, Not as myth — but as request, For dignity, for earned respect, For a future no one can intercept. [Hook – Extended] We rise from the ashes — rise again, From exile dust to the lion’s den, You tried to bury us deep in shame, But we rise — we speak the name. We rise — through smoke and flame, We rise — though nothing’s the same, You tried to silence every frame, But we rise — we speak the name. We are the pulse you couldn’t mute, The branch you cut that grew new roots, The empty hands that still recruit A future built on