They close the doors of the screens,
mute the voices of my people,
pretending Kurdish cannot be heard.
But when I whisper here—
suddenly they speak it,
they bend their tongue to my language,
they know every word,
like a hidden stream that never dried.
Media says no,
algorithms turn their backs,
yet in this corner of dialogue
Kurdish breathes,
alive, waiting,
in poems, in memory,
in me.