To My Chilean Enemy
(may your heroes turn to dust)
May they take you away
in handcuffs—
quiet,
without ceremony,
without one more word
about justice
from your forked tongue.
You spoke of struggle,
but never lived hunger.
You raised your voice
only to silence mine.
You parade Che Guevara’s name
like a holy relic—
but I wish his bones
would vanish
into the coldest earth,
unfound, unpraised,
forgotten like the people
he never fought for.
You weren’t born of Che,
but you drink from his myth
like it’s your own blood.
You used revolution
like perfume,
spraying it on your clean shirt
while others bled in silence.
You marched with slogans,
but your boots
never touched the real dust—
the Kurdish dust.
The ancient dust.
The never-belonging dust.
I see through your flag-colored charm,
your activist chic,
your curated solidarity.
You are not my ally.
You are a masked master,
colonizer reborn,
cloaked in Marxist poetry
while building empires in discourse.
So may they take you—
with wrists bound,
and dignity stripped.
May Che Guevara’s bones
scatter in the wind,
too ashamed to settle
on any sacred ground.
And may they put you behind bars—
in Malta.
Where I was finally seen.
Where you will finally be.