“Poisoned Ink”
Bureaucrats are poison for Kurds —
they measure us in silence,
they write our names in vanished ink,
and call it law, not violence.
They draw their borders with trembling hands,
and say it’s for your good.
But a people cannot live
inside another’s paperwork and blood.
Our language breathes in whispers,
our songs escape their files,
for every stamp they press on us
we answer with a thousand miles.
Bureaucrats are poison for Kurds —
but we’re the antidote, still,
a living map of mountain hearts
they’ll never learn to kill.