Archives for category: Daniela Kantorova

Daniela Kantorova

Doctoral Student at The Wright Institute
Creative Director at

Our flesh was pink and soft and gentle
Our blood was warm, it ran its course
Now our skin screams with million of voices
For what you have done
Our bodies deserve a caress
of a warm breeze on a summer night
during a stroll on Azadi square
But these streets see different signs
he clothes scattered on the ground
How can you imagine an axe biting into your own body
This is not a Hollywood movie
This is me, but this is not my life
The pain oozing from my body is a thread
To the crowds running through grey streets
through smoke, sandstorm,and fire,
I think the earth is spitting sand, conjuring veils of dust
in shame at these iniquities
But still the pain is oozing from my body
from every single onlooker, from computer screens
and squeezing my very soul out
It needs to get out!
“We must turn this culture inside out” said Rumi
But he did not mean the gut
Our prison has grown too small
It needs to burst; we need to fly out
Yet our incomprehensible flesh fits so perfectly into this world
It sticks, it does not understand departure
It touches, it attracts, it can be morphed into anything
and when the clothes are torn off by the vultures
and its nakedness stares into the mirror of stark reality
We ask, who wrote these folds, who carved these wrinkles,
who sprinkled these spots
The hand of transience has played with our colors
But still its touch was a simple caress
Now our cells speak a new language
That we did not know we had
New kinds of pain, new tunnels of suffering shutting off the brain
Who knew bodies could collapse and fall apart, outside of TV screens
Who know how blood flows, so fast and bright
We will never see red the same again
We will think all those movies stupid
We will try to recollect how was it before the missing pieces
of me and you of us
Before our minds turned into shattered glass,
still flashes of brilliance, but flickering light
It’s not that it was put out, but they broke the lamp
But regardless we need to fight
Remember we are still here, we are still alive
It’s just that the wolves gnawed at our hearts
They drank our blood
But we spit them out



Daniela Kantorova

Doctoral Student at The Wright Institute
Creative Director at

RIP Neda

Saturday June 20th, 2009
You have left the tyrants of this world behind, Neda,
but we hear your voice
They shot at your heart, but their claws will never rip it out
Today you donated your blood,
so that freedom lives
and now we carry it in our veins, Neda
It won’t be washed off from the streets
(not even by our tears)
It won’t be forgotten, Neda
As this is a different path

You have reached the Placeless now,
Perhaps you met your sisters there,
that the vultures thought they could also kill:
Delara Darabi, Mona, Zaynab, the mainden of Zanjan….
This is the true Iran
The women of your land have a different kind of glory,
and it will dawn soon, and shed its light on its villages and cities

Your blood is singing Neda,
As we bow down to your sacrifice
We light a candle, and we know
The blood that was spilled will be transmuted into joy of the land of Ta
Your cries from the rooftops at midnight into light
God sees you Neda, and you see Her now
Please ask Her to burn down our fears

And you, ayatollah, stop raping your people
Look Neda in the eyes
And look closely, ayatollah,
for God is manifest in them
And now, will you tell Her She is a vagrant?
Nah, it is you, stray dog, demon from this nether world,
feeding on blood and human remains
You shut down your door to God
by shooting Neda

And you Neda, please do not forget us
And breathe your cosmic breath
as a blessing on our efforts
We remember
Your blood is the voice
agitating our veins now.

Daniela Kantorova

Doctoral Student at The Wright Institute
Creative Director at

RIP Delara Darabi (September 1986 – May 2009)

On that morning, CNN was worried about the attendance of proms due to swine flu….
BBC, Al Jazeera were silent
But the midnight before the most people did not even notice that
the earth stood still and speechless
before breaking down to clamor and inconsolable weeping

For what happened in the Rasht prison
a youth
was hanged
for no reason
but hate

I wonder if she received my postcard,
but probably some ayatollah chucked it in the thrash
with lunch leftovers thinking
“Naive dogs Americans”

I decided not to use my photo of colored pens
to make that postcard
For they took away her paints and brushes
and called her the prisoner of colors
I thought the card might punch her heart

But now it is me who needs
heart to heart transfusion

I heard her guardian,
her soul sister angel
weeping into the night
but even as her cries reverberated
across the universe
the world wide web
could not catch Delara Darabi
as she dropped down into the gaping void
of our inhumanity