She lay on her back, silently surrendering,
This world as her life ebbed away,
Her eyes were wide open, watching us,
As we fought to stem the flow,
Our palms pressed together as if in prayer,
Sought to keep her spirit within,
To stop it escaping from the tortured cell,
But nothing we did could stop the blood,
Nor our revolution, in all its infant joy,
Not bullets or butchery, bombs or plots,
Nor the old men in black robes raised on hate,
Whose sermons sold lies to the masses,
And kept the people in a prison of faith,
For as her blood blushed upon the street,
In timeless motion we watched the world turn,
And as Neda died, the regime died too,
Slain with the same gun, in the same street,
By the same hand and by the same killers.
