WE DIED FOR THE WINDS OF THE MOUNTAINS
by Sfarda L Gül
Identifies with the nations of Armenia, Iraq, Georgia, & Türkiye
Under the Paryadres I lie / a miscarriage / an afterbirth.
I should like my tears to plenish its rivers / my blood to nourish its soil /
my lungs to feed its winds—these membranes wrapping the
swaying grass blades and cradling the moon.
Yet blood pulses in my flesh-veins cerise as juice / bitter like disownment.
Blood has nourished this soil too many times, no? Whose?
I never did find neither my father nor God, so I scratch at the cross and
I scratch at the mosque door but I don’t know and I don’t know I do not
know what I am when my spongy white marrow unspools from its
callused red skin / I am a gutted pomegranate I try to piece together
again / reform into a cohesive whole it never once was.
My blood is on my own hands
cerise as juice / and why?
And who?
Where from?
Where to?
I cannot be me until I eat myself aril
by bitter aril / until I am soil /
until I am wind.
I cannot be me until I am not /
until I am under the Paryadres.
Sfarda L Gül (alias) is an immigrant polyglot artist, poet, and writer of indigenous Anatolian (Pontic, Laz, Homshetsi) and minority Baltoslavic background creatively focused around the macabre and introspective. In her spare time, she is enthralled in the study of ethnography, linguistics, history, and social activism aiding to uplift queer and ethnic minorities of her native SWANA and Eastern Europe. Sfarda is a 2024 debut independent author, writing about culture and society on Substack at Lacrimosity and Righteous Rage. Her poetry has previously been featured in Musing Publications, From Heart to Stomach, and Metachrosis Literary among others. Find her on Instagram at sfar.da.