“The Minister Wears Silence”
— if the Azeri Prime Minister was a Talysh Kurd
He steps to the podium in Baku’s light,
His suit precise, his posture tight.
But deep in his ribs, a forest stirs—
The breath of a Talysh Kurd unheard.
His name is clean, approved, refined,
But not the one his great-grandmother signed.
Her voice was buried in Soviet frost,
Her language filed as “unfit” or “lost.”
They call him Azeri, and he nods—
A servant of oil, of deals, of gods.
But he dreams in a rhythm strange and wild,
That doesn’t belong to the state’s own child.
Kurmancî fragments hum in his veins,
Tales of hills and long-lost plains.
Talysh rain falls in his inner sky,
Even as drones above him fly.
He speaks of flags with forced delight,
But somewhere within, he knows it’s not right.
He’s not a Turk, not wholly true—
But born of roots the state never grew.
A Talysh Kurd, in disguise so neat,
Wearing Baku’s power like ironed deceit.
He smiles for cameras, hand on his chest,
While ghosts of his village never rest.