If I Were There
If I had lived
in the arms of the Caucasus,
where the winds speak old Kurdish to the stones,
or in Mesopotamia—
with its sun-stained soil and songs
woven into the rivers—
I would wear my name with pride.
I would walk tall,
a daughter of the mountains,
known by earth and sky alike.
But I am in Germany.
Where my name is questioned,
where my silence is mistaken for shame.
Here, I feel small.
Misunderstood.
Like a root searching for soil
that remembers me.