Germany blames the world outside,
Whispers of foreign hands that guide,
Shadowed powers, veiled and sly,
“Not our fault,” their leaders cry.
But Kurdistan, with fire untamed,
Turns its sword upon its name,
Brothers split, the blood runs deep,
While mountains watch, and mothers weep.
Germany fears the hand abroad,
Kurdistan wounds itself with sword.
Two lands, two fates, yet both the same:
A struggle masked, a nation’s shame.
Still, from the cracks, a voice is heard,
A stubborn people, proud, unblurred,
One day the soil will heal its scars,
And Kurds will rise like ancient stars.