“From L3 We Rose (and I Tremble)”
From L3 we rose, in a blaze of the past,
Through deserts and stars, moving silent and fast.
In marrow and thread, the old ones remain —
But some truths whisper in shadows, not plain.
N stands close, too close to flame,
Too near the root, too near the name.
It carries the dust of a time I resist,
A path too primal, wrapped in mist.
And though it echoes through Chechen lands,
Germany, Italy, Turkey, Iran, India,
Iraq...
Omani shores and Russian sands,
I turn away with cautious eyes,
Scared of the blood that never dies.
For I am U4c1 — from colder stone,
Born of steppe winds and fields unknown.
Kalash and Kyrgyz hum in my bone,
A battle cry, a song alone.
Not N. Not L3. I seek not her face.
She walks too near to the motherplace Africa.
Too raw, too old, too wide, too deep —
She wakes the fears I wish would sleep.
Let me remain where I belong:
With axes, graves, and northern song.
Let my fire be bronze, my shadow dry,
And not the one who hears L3 cry.