Genetics Is the Ultimate Truth
To those who rewrite with tongues but never with bone
You can shout your theory
into the wind,
but the genome does not blink.
It does not bow
to trending ideas
or borrowed flags.
You say we’re all one.
You say origins are myths.
But the marrow knows
what your slogans try to erase.
You twist timelines.
You drag every people
into your blanket of sameness,
until nothing means anything
except your own reflection.
But I am not from your forest.
I am not born of your rhythm.
My people carved terraces,
not drums.
My ancestors traced stars
through stone—
not savannah dust.
Genetics is the ultimate truth.
It doesn’t care
what you feel.
It carries the shape of the past
in silence,
in structure,
in every unspoken cell.
You can call the Sardinians Black.
You can call the Cypriots yours.
You can say
Kurdish is a fragment of your myth.
But your words
will never change
what’s already woven
deep inside the double helix.
You will never be us.
And we were never you.
Your narrative is twisted.
Your reach, desperate.
Your empire—
no less imperial
just because it’s painted
in melanin and pride.
The body remembers.
And no matter how many times
you rename it,
truth still pulses
beneath your lies.