Those “Kurdish” men with mocking tongues,
who laugh at mothers, gray and strong,
who scorn the words of Kurdish breath,
they chain their souls, they earn their death.
For every wrinkle tells a tale,
of villages lost, of voices frail,
yet proud they stand, still speaking true,
while cowards sneer at what they knew.
No throne of honor, no man’s crown—
their laughter drags their spirit down.
But justice waits, as mountains wail:
such men belong behind the jail.