Women
Some of their lives were black and white,
but their blood became the only color.
Others were sewing their hidden, living faces with their hands.
Their eyes were shut.
I saw one in a locked room,
staring at her features in the mirror,
only to find the definition of herself.
Another of them was wearing a swan necklace,
yet was still surrounded by hunting crows.
Started painting on torn paper,
but the meaning never arrived.
Their wings were cut
and framed on the walls for years.
Giving tears to the dead plants,
their stories to locked windows,
staring at the doors
for hope to arrive,
but it never did.
They were terrified.
They usually didn’t utter words.
They didn’t have their own words,
only saying what was accepted.
Their pictures were created by their surroundings.
Their colors turned black,
their heads full of white birds
that never became part of them.
Creating fake paper birds
and inking them red,
in the hope they would arrive alive.
They carried their meaning in their burned chests,
embracing the warmth of the fire.
They embraced the illusion.
They never experienced reality.
About the Author:
Sana Jangeer Hamad is a Kurdish poet and writer from Kurdistan. She is an English student at Salahaddin University and one of its top students. She is the first-place winner of an international poetry competition, has been published in international literary magazines and anthologies, and has represented Kurdish culture and literature at international literary events as a speaker. Her poetry explores identity, memory, womanhood, and resilience through rich symbolism and evocative imagery.
