They smell your breath,
lest you might have said I love you.
They smell your heart.
These are strange times, my darling.
The butchers are stationed at each
crossroads with bloody clubs and cleavers.
This poem was lifted from a New Yorker article about reform and repression in Iran, coupled with an interview with Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. I recommend reading it if you have any interest in how things really are in Iran.