Between Rivers and Mountains
They say Jazira ends at the bend
where the Euphrates turns its face.
But I have seen the wind cross borders
with no need for lines or grace.
Malatya—stone and almond bloom,
your mountains carry songs.
Perhaps not drawn on scholars’ maps,
but Jazira’s pulse belongs.
The rivers do not ask permission
to carve their way through time.
And neither do the dreams we hold
beyond each boundary line.
So let them name the earth in books,
with ink that dries and fades—
we know that memory, not maps,
decides where soul invades.