by Nma Dhahir
In joints where silence once did rest,
Now thunders low, a constant guest.
A twist, a turn — the fire wakes,
Each knuckle groans, each motion aches.
The cup I lift, the pen I guide,
Betray the tremor deep inside.
My fingers hold the weight of years,
And mornings come with stiffness, tears.
No battle cry, no wound in sight,
Just quiet wars I face each night.
My bones remember every fall,
Each echo bouncing off the wall.
But still I rise, despite the flare,
With steady breath and patient care.
I stretch, I wait, I learn to bend,
And name this ache a lifelong friend.
In four small rooms, I plant and mend,
A window box, a jar to tend.
Each herb I grow, each seed I keep,
A promise sown while others sleep.
Though space is tight and tools are few,
My hands still find the work to do.
Though pain may never take its leave,
It teaches what we can achieve —
To find new rhythm, softer pace,
And wear endurance on our face.
Within these walls, I build a life,
Of quiet strength and gentler strife.
Nma Dhahir is a Kurdish poet and emerging writer whose work explores identity, memory and the quiet intersections of language and resistance. Rooted in personal and collective experience, her poetry often weaves themes of homeland, womanhood, and emotional resilience. She is using words as a space for healing and reclaiming silenced narratives.
photo credit: Sixteen Miles Out, Unsplash