My father holds the memory tight,
Kurdish words burning in the night.
They mock, they threaten, sharpen the blade,
for truths he carried, never betrayed.
He whispered to me of a Kurdish world,
its songs, its pain, its flags unfurled.
For that, they marked him, wanted him gone,
a hunted man for the tongue he’s drawn.
And in our home, betrayal near,
my mother’s eyes, cold, insincere.
Another hand of the assassin’s kin,
Turkish-backed shadows creeping in.