They watch me with that quiet hunger,
eyes sharp as rusted wire,
pretending it’s curiosity.
But I know —
it’s the jealousy that burns them,
because I carry a name older than their borders,
a heartbeat that survived every empire.
I am Kurdish.
They are Nazi scum,
polished in suits,
still stinking of the grave.
And no matter how loud they march,
my existence is the louder truth.