Borders in My Heart
The Bukharian tide—half Kurdish, half lost—
Anatolian echoes in languages tossed.
Strange are their ties, not fully unfurled,
Yet I’d rather they stayed in another world.
Let them walk with Assyrians, ancient and proud,
Or Israeli kin in a Zionist shroud.
But not with the Kurds—no, not hand in hand,
Even if blood runs through the same land.
Germany cold, Spain far too loud,
Norway too clean, Portugal too proud.
Give me the frost, the birch, the fire—
Russia, Sweden, Ukraine, and Finland inspire.
But deep in my bones where old songs begin,
It's Kurdistan's soul that dwells within.
And Caucasian Georgia, with hills that hum like prayer,
Is a quiet rebellion, crisp mountain air.
I love Iran where the poets sleep,
And Afghanistan’s wounds are jagged and deep.
The Zagros calls with a voice I know—
Where ancient roots still twist and grow.
Azerbaijan shines with a chaotic grace,
And Georgia remains my resting place.
Armenia? Still a silent maybe.
But Georgia and Azeris? They never feel shady.