If I started talking about it, I wouldn’t stop. I say something and content myself with little.
We know ourselves as fighters against the acceptance of the victim role
but we always end up the only ones.
Life is hard, you get it.
The burdens take on from the birthday.
Under a fighter plane chasing our bread, Attacking the bed and dimming the light but not for the good of rest, absurdity knows no bounds
and love for those who can dream is the helping hand.
Oh my love I can dream
Oh my love I wall my body to protect the two who are being pursued by the plane
and put me a land in your body for generation to come
I give the tongue of this identity
I leave only the iron to oblivion
I look for you and I find you
Kurdistan is on your chest
let me curse myself with that across the river again
the rough, pure and sharp sounds of my tanbour are the wounded man’s remedy
but my wound is no longer with me, but I seek it and find it
I look for myself in you and find myself next to the river but with clear water
I’ll get you a glass of water maybe you’re thirsty.