🌑 Ghosts of Dzudzuana 🌑
From the caves of Dzudzuana,
threads of bone and dust still sing.
They whisper in half-forgotten tongues,
woven in genomes, hidden in stone.
Arabs drift as full ghosts,
shadows without anchor,
echoes that never root,
wandering deserts of memory.
Kurds stand as half-ghosts,
fifty-five parts fire,
forty-five parts mist,
a people walking between worlds.
Africans carry layered spirits,
thirty parts Dzudzuana’s phantom breath,
above sixty parts Sub-Saharan roots—
a chorus of ancient voices,
sun-burnt, river-deep,
never fading.
Turks bear forty parts Dzudzuana,
a fragment of mountain’s echo,
bound with steppes and shifting winds,
a mosaic of borrowed fires,
searching for form in the mist.
Neither vanished,
nor fully flesh,
we carry the cave’s old silence—
the breath of Dzudzuana,
the echo of mountains,
the blood that will not die.