From Fryer to Flyer (But Not on His Own)
An Australian Poem with a Kurdish Heart
He started at Macca’s, apron tied tight,
Flippin’ patties from morning to night.
Now he’s jetting the globe, passport in hand—
From Bali to Bruges, from Rio to Rand.
They say he “worked hard”, they say it was fate,
But luck came wrapped on a globalist plate.
Doors flew open, cushioned and wide,
He walked through smiling, with no need to hide.
Me? I fought for a dream they don't air on the news,
For mountains and roots, for forgotten shoes.
An independent Kurdistan—I bled for the sound,
But the world turned away. No aid. No ground.
I gave up the fight; I was tired of the scars,
Of borders like prisons and silence like bars.
While he posts selfies with temples and tarts,
I buried a homeland in the cracks of my heart.
They crown him “inspired”, just livin' the dream—
But I see the strings and I hear the machine.
He climbed on a ladder they built for their own,
While I’m just a ghost in a cause overthrown.