I’m tired of an agony that doesn’t belong to me
I’m sitting on a land that doesn’t belong to me

I’ve lived with a name that doesn’t belong to me
I’ve cried from a pain that doesn’t belong to me

In waiting for the bitter taste of McDonald’s
behind the fast food windows I’m in the line-up

Under the Total company’s open tap of petrol
within the Porsche wheels I’m yearning

Stunned from the sparkle of your Rolex
happy from the happiness of your ecstasy tablet

I’m the snow under the ski pole in Shemshak
I melt; I am Kahrizak’s shame

A wet and tired mouse from the gutter’s torment
I’m gratified with the little alms from the good people

I’m a torn gofer under the stock market’s feet
I’m in the race with the universe for misery

Our durability was registered in contradiction
the hell with our words and our message

I’m tired of an agony that doesn’t belong to me
I’m sitting on a land that doesn’t belong to me

I’ve lived with a name that doesn’t belong to me
I’ve cried from a pain that doesn’t belong to me

In the war squashed under the tanks wheels
in peacetime drowned under the banks loans

Spare change in the depth of the pockets
a crumpled cheque in the hands of the dishonest

I’m the profit of the labour, the load and the pulse of the factory
the most marginalized neighbourhood; my nest

Five in the morning on the gallows I become a Kurd
tortured alongside Baluch and Lur, I get shattered

Departure of the Turk departed from mother language
an Urmia, salt on Azari’s wound

Blood and vain under your white skin
the hell with your promises and arrangements

I’m tired of an agony that doesn’t belong to me
I’m sitting on a land that doesn’t belong to me

I’ve lived with a name that doesn’t belong to me
I’ve cried from a pain that doesn’t belong to me

-Shahin Najafi, “Proletariat”