“The Devil's Tongue”
They say Latin is a dead language,
but I hear it still—
in courtrooms,
in cathedrals,
in the tongues of those
who write rules meant to erase us.
Latin is the devil’s tongue.
Cold.
Perfect.
Used to crown kings
and sign away lives.
It was never ours.
Not the tongue of the mountains,
not the song of the shepherds,
not the whisper of exiled mothers
hiding lullabies in Kurdish breath.
It came with iron.
With books that bled ink
before they bled people.
It came with order,
the kind that builds ovens
and borders
and silence.
And maybe—yes, maybe—
the Nazis sharpened it.
Maybe Hitler himself
loved the way Latin
made death sound official.
Because genocide
always wears a suit.
Always hides behind
words like civitas, ordo, imperium.
But I see through it.
Through marble halls
and golden Latin phrases
meant to sound holy
but reek of smoke and ash.
Give me broken Kurdish,
raw and gasping,
before your perfect Latin.
Give me fire
over form.
Because I have no need
for the devil’s tongue
when my own language
still bleeds
and still breathes.