They never dared erase Hewlêr,
not the mountains of Soran,
not the flag in Slemani’s wind.
Iraqi Kurds stood visible,
their name carved in stone.
But in Rojava’s plains,
they took the names from our tongues,
called us “Syrian,”
as if the river forgot its source,
as if the sun above Qamishlo
were not the same sun that burns over Duhok.
They robbed us of papers,
robbed us of words,
robbed us of names —
but not of being.
For we are Kurds,
from Afrin’s olive trees,
from Kobane’s dust,
from Derik’s soil.
You may deny,
but denial is a shadow.
We remain the flame.