From the Black Forest shadows
I whisper:
the Kurds are coming.
Not as guests,
not as beggars in exile,
but as a storm breaking glass towers,
as a fire undoing your iron gates.
They told us to be silent,
to scatter,
to fade in Germany’s grey streets —
but instead we gather,
mountain blood in our veins,
ancient tongues on our lips.
This is no visit,
this is conquest of memory,
a siege of forgetting.
And when they ask who saved me,
I will answer:
the ones you tried to erase.
The Kurds,
arriving like dawn,
to claim me back.