The Line of the Father
They say:
only the Kurdish man
can make a baby Kurdish,
as if the seed alone
writes the story of a people.
But what of the mother—
her lullabies of mountains,
her hands kneading bread
from soil soaked in exile,
her voice teaching the first word?
If the child is Kurdish
only by the father’s claim,
then half the song is silenced,
half the fire extinguished.
For every stone stands
because earth holds it.
For every river flows
because rain remembers.
A people is not born
from one side alone.
Kurdish is the blood,
but Kurdish is also the breath,
the cradle,
the cry—
the mother.