“They Call It Civilization (But It’s a Virus)”
They call it civilization,
but it forgets its ancestors
faster than it builds its cities.
They call it progress,
but it’s just speed without soul,
volume without memory,
a thousand mouths
afraid of silence.
They rename everything —
mountains, languages, gods —
and then ask why
you don’t recognize yourself
in their mirror.
They call it freedom
but only if it follows
their flag,
their tongue,
their comfort zone.
I said GökTürk,
and they blinked.
I said U4c1,
and they smirked.
I said I come from
the mother of mountains,
and they offered
therapy.
They think different means
loving what they love.
They think heritage
is just something exotic
to put on a T-shirt.
But I am not decoration.
I am not digestible.
I will not cooperate
with traitors
who smear my fate
and trade my fire
for European applause.
They are the virus.
Not because they live —
but because they spread
by killing difference.
By flattening depth.
By exporting amnesia.
Let them call it progress.
Let them stay loud.
Let them upload their emptiness
until the silence finally eats them.
I will stay old.
I will stay still.
I will speak
like the mountain that made me.
And when they forget
how to remember —
I’ll still be here.
Stone.
Blood.
Wolf-breath.
Unbent.