🌿 Not Ottoman — Anatolian
They say the empire ruled the skies,
with crescent blades and marble lies.
But I remember something old —
not swords, not silk, but earth and gold.
Not Ottoman.
Anatolian.
Where figs grew wild in mountain rain,
and women whispered to the grain.
Where olive trees were not yet taxed,
and rivers knew no border tracks.
You called it throne, I called it dust.
You crowned a sultan — I held trust
in hands that baked the sun into bread,
not in the men who wore blood-red.
Not Ottoman.
Anatolian.
Not conquest, but a cradle’s hum,
not exile — but where I come from.
Where stars were counted, not ignored,
and children danced before the sword.
Your maps are dead.
But the soil breathes still.
And I do not need your empire’s will.