Ode to the Mandaean
Child of the rivers,
keeper of water and light,
your faith flows with the Tigris,
your prayers rise with the dawn.
In hidden sanctuaries,
you guarded the wisdom of stars,
carrying secrets of baptism,
the cleansing of spirit,
the oldest rites of humankind.
Through centuries of exile,
through the weight of kingdoms and swords,
still you endure —
Mandaean of Iraq, not Arab,
but your own people, ancient, apart.
And when I look to your neighbors,
the Assyrians of the plain,
I see no great divide,
for both of you are branches
of Mesopotamia’s tree,
born of the same soil,
guardians of the same memory.
Soul of the reed marshes,
voice of Mesopotamia,
neither conquest nor silence
can erase your name.
You are a flame in the dark,
a river unbroken,
a people who walk with memory.