🧬 Echoes of Kotias (U4'9 Unnamed)
for the forgotten daughter of Georgia
She lay where mountains kiss the mist,
Where forests hush and shadows play.
No stele spoke her tribal twist,
Yet her bones still whisper clay.
Her haplogroup? — “Not available,”
as if time itself erased her trail,
Like a name in ash, untraceable,
Like a story told beneath a veil.
But science speaks in fractions now,
In counts of 39 and 2.
Anatolian sun upon her brow,
Yet Caucasus kissed her through and through.
Zagros dreams curled in her hair,
European flint upon her heel,
Sub-Saharan sparks burned there —
A human tale too deep to steal.
And now she walks in modern flesh,
Though no one knows the root she claims:
In Turks of Southern Bulgaria, fresh,
Yet woven through with other names —
A flash of Jew, a taste of Spain,
A sigh that Maltese breezes know,
Balıkesir rains repeat her name,
And Roma footsteps let it go.
Are they all her? Or all apart?
She cannot say — her file’s gone dim.
But you can feel her ancient heart
Still thudding in your limbs.