“I Will Cut Your Tongue”
If you beat my brother again,
if your spit finds him
like it did before—
because you think Balkan blood
makes cruelty your right—
then I will not write poems.
I will not speak peace.
I will cut your tongue.
Not with knives,
but with the fury
you mistook for silence.
Not with hands,
but with every ancient breath
that lives in my name.
You do not own this rage.
It is mine.
It was born
when you laughed at our bruises,
when you danced on our backs
like we were soil
you could step on
to feel taller.
But I am not earth.
I am fire under it.
And he is my blood,
my younger sky,
and you spit on the sky
as if storms will not answer.
That Balkan blood from Switzerland—
it struts in safety,
spits with the arrogance of distance.
But distance does not erase rot.
That blood was born to be buried,
not honored, not feared,
but returned to the ground
from which it came,
unmourned by those it tried to break.
I do not make threats.
I make memory.
And you will remember me—
not by my forgiveness,
but by the silence
that came too late
to save you
from what you deserve.