Blood Bound

Blood Bound

I will mourn you.
I may not know you,

but I will mourn you.

I will mourn the loss of mothers berkhik.

I mourn the loss of her little baby sheep.

I know she would pamper you,

she would have pampered you,

until the hairs on your head became gray;

gray like the smoke created by the shelter of our brothers and sisters

on top of those bombarded Asos mountains.

But now the hair left on your head

is at a stalemate of fawn

imbedded into the chestnut soil

which your lifeless body fallen upon.

I guess you will always be one of the many.

One of the many who, sacrificed themselves for a landless country.

One of the many who have left a part of themselves,

in the landless country.

You and your comrades have spent your remaining years

attempting to obtain this missing piece,

which has been kneaded into the soil by the thump of fallen bodies.

Your death will be taken to the grave,

as will your body.

You will be hidden from what you have descended from;

because underneath the mounds of dirt,

the rays of sunshine can not reach your lifeless,

yet untainted body.

The only reason you were stripped of your life,

was because of your nationality.

The nationality which was stamped on your forehead.

The nationality which spoke for itself.

The nationality ingrained in your soul.

The nationality which dictated your every last action.

Every

last

action.

I may not know you,

but I heard your call.

I am so sorry I was unable to stop your fall.

I am sorry I left you to crawl.

The last thing you heard was the whistling of an “allies” bomb.

No.

The screaming of our brothers and sisters which fought by your side.

No.

The soft whisper from when mama was telling you not to spill the tea

when serving the guests.

Now, I can hear the vengeance in our Kurdish blood reaching a rolling boil.

We will mourn.

We will avenge.

We will die.

And when we die,

a whole new generation will be there.

And they will be there to continue the bloody cycle,

which has been injected into our veins like a drug.

Making us crave a place to call Kurdistan.

Making us demand a place to call home.