Gandhara in my soul, Zagros in my flame,
I carry Mannaean pride like a spark in my name.
No steppe-born rider, no Sintashta steel,
I am the fire—ancient, calm, and real.
Bronze from BMAC, forged with intent,
I build who I am, not chariots sent.
The South calls softly, where my roots began,
Not the North, where the loud march ran.