Short poem 10.
For the Iraqi Kurdish village of Kulajo
I remember you.
You were my mother, father,
sister, brother, uncle, aunt.
Though our last names never met,
we were sewn like thread at the seams
by the weddings, harvests, births and burials
our households shared.
And while planes and tanks spat fire on our heads,
while guns made us wandering souls,
the bond of our communal blood helped us to endure.
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