In Reality, the Whole World Is Genociding the Turks (a satirical poem)
In their minds, they are the last of their kind,
Cornered by maps,
persecuted by truths,
smothered by history books
that dare to speak.
They walk as victims through lands
they renamed,
tears in their eyes
for borders they drew.
Each whisper of the past
is an attack,
each memory of the erased
a bullet to their pride.
The world, they claim,
is genociding the Turks—
with facts,
with graves,
with bones that won’t stay silent.
They scream at the wind:
“We are the wounded!”
as they build prisons
on the mouths of poets.
They outlaw names,
then ask why no one sings for them.
They flood the stage,
then say no one lets them speak.
They bury the villages,
then cry when ghosts come knocking.
Yes, in their minds,
they are the hunted—
not for what they’ve lost,
but for what they refuse to see.
And the world?
The world simply remembers.