Two clusters on the chart,
Kurdish hills, Turkish plains,
and between them—
only the ghost of a cross,
red and alone.
They say Kurdish and Turkish blood
flow together in many veins,
but the genes refuse,
each clings to its own mountains,
its own soil.
The middle stays empty,
except for words and politics,
while the chart whispers:
“Kurdish is Kurdish,
Turkish is Turkish—
and never the same.”