A poem by Ramtin, on the Iranian site:

War cry
while afghan children still
pick fresh wounds,
the drums are once again sounding.
manic instrumentals,
lyrics added by men with a gun
in one hand, a people's trust in the other.
rally around the chief, never question,
not acceptable in a righteous nation,
though collateral damage is a part of military curriculum.
simple stats,
not eyes, not pregnant women
or blind men with gentile smiles.
rhetoric, the noble skill,
the reason why you buy shoes made by slaves
and never ask questions,
the reason why you will watch baghdad burn
and never actually know why.
a moral noose around purple necks, feet dangling
no one kicking, breaths getting shorter,
shorter,
shorter... then nothing ...
just you and I standing within this desert,
beneath crimson skies,
black oil dripping off our faces,
and the drums are sounding...