Sigh: emit a long, deep, audible breath expressing sadness

In a time when frenzied everyday lives is replaced with a melancholy feeling; when a great hope is crushed only to leave the bitter taste of sorrow and desperation; when state's iron fist tore any lips that speaks a mind; when no media reflected the hears of those marching in the streets in silents; a poem, written hundred years ago, brings a rush of blood to our face. When arrests and brutal beatings have taken the grandeur out of the great Alborz Mountain, the beauty out of the migration of sparrows, the rhythm out of the sound of rain drops on moving umbrellas, a lyric sang by our forefathers in another struggle for freedom can let this devastated mind wonder free and lets this heart hope.
I remember after the first massacre on the streets of Tehran, a group of Iranian-Americans, each with a different political ideals, sat on the ground in a square in Palo Alto, mourning their brothers and sisters. In large letters on a piece of paper in the middle of their warm huddle read "Today Iran Wept, but Tomorrow is another Day"