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On the fiery fields of Anatolia,
She hears the shrill yell of her countrymen.
Lead from another land with the ochre and sand.
She stands at a distance where the metal can’t touch her flesh.
Yet, there is the sweet tinge of fumes and blood as she licks her lips.

Look at my land,
Milk and honey.
Eternal with some old man’s obscure holy.
Sorrows to borrow from where the sun sets.
It rises here in sweet Anatolia
And sets on faraway lands.
The sunshine spills through the sky when there’s not another to break your back.

There’s not another place in the world;
No, there’s not an Anatolia anymore.
Neither is there a Carthage or Armenia.
She exchanged her ancient language, from a place near Persia
For sophistication and clean water.

This civilization ends and there’s room for another.
She watches as the spiritual ground beneath her feet is stolen,
Put in a refinery, and emulsified into smog for another people.
Home was stolen the day when the men from the foreign lands forgot her name.
She became another she and her countrymen the enemies.

No, there’s not an Anatolia anymore,
But it wasn’t for the bloodshed and violence on the screen.
No, it was left behind when the foreigners combed through the pillage,
Thousands of years ago,
Exchanging hypocritical for more hypocritical.

Marina Ali

Marina Ali is the poetry editor for Brown Girl Magazine and a medical student at Kansas City University.

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