Thus it was in the days when the waters narrowed,
when the sea drew itself tight between Persia and Arabia,
and the Strait of Hormuz became a gate of nations—
a place where kingdoms rose and fell
as easily as the tide.

And behold, an oil ship moved through the passage,
slow as a burdened beast,
its hull heavy with the wealth of the earth,
its shadow cast upon waters
that once bore the caravans of Hormuz the island‑kingdom,
the red fortress that remembered
the prayers to Ahura Mazda
and the cannons of distant empires.

But sorrow walked beside the vessel,
for many lives had been claimed by these depths—
sailors swallowed by storms,
merchants lost to war,
names washed clean from memory
as stones are smoothed by the sea.

And anger and fear rose like a desert wind,
sharp and unrelenting.
For war had laid its snare in the narrow place,
tightening the strait like a cord around the throat of nations.
Breath was taken before it could be spoken,
and the waters groaned beneath the weight
of men’s unending striving.

Yet in the midst of constriction,
in the shadow of ancient cliffs
and the trembling of modern engines,
a sign appeared.

On the first day of Spring,
my heart shimmered—
not with the strength of armies,
nor with the pride of rulers,
but with a quiet light
that no darkness could swallow.
It glowed like dawn upon oil‑dark water,
a promise whispered
beyond the reach of war.

For the Lord of seasons
opens what men have closed.
Beyond the bottleneck,
the sea widens;
beyond the pain,
a future unfolds like a scroll.
And the ship, if it endures,
shall find open waters again.
So shall we.

Thus says the day of Spring in Hormuz:
that narrowness is not the end,
that sorrow is not the final word,
and that from the press of suffering
a broader mercy shall rise.