Ode to Iranian Arabs — NOT IRAQI ARABS
O sons and daughters of Khuzestan’s wind,
where the Karun bends like a silver wrist,
and the date palms stand as witnesses
to a thousand whispered dawns.
You carry the scent of the gulf on your skin,
a language woven from salt and desert bloom,
your eyes holding both the heat of summer
and the shade of the riverbank.
Not the streets of Basra,
nor the alleys of Baghdad —
your roots drink from Persian soil,
your laughter threads through Ahvaz nights,
your songs rise over Abadan’s chimneys
and fall with the call to prayer in Shadegan.
You are the tide against the stone,
the breath between two worlds,
the living bridge
between Arab sands and Iranian clay.