Before the night, she rests in bloom,
Beneath the pomegranate tree in quiet room.
Its branches bend with stories told,
In seeds of red, in roots of old.
 
Her tef lies close, its silence near,
A rhythm held the world can hear.
Not struck by hand, yet still it hums,
With all that was, and all that comes.
 
Her skin remembers in quiet lines,
Tattoos etched like ancient signs
Mothers’ voices, daughters’ names,
Buried truths and hidden flames.
 
Daughter of nature.
Owned by no one.
Mother of all.
 
She dares to meet your gaze,
Unmoved by doubt, untouched by praise.
No walls remain, no chains endure,
Her steps are free, her presence sure.
 
She crossed the lines that once confined her,
Left silent fears and names behind her.
No need to shout, no need to prove,
She simply is, and she can move.
 
Her world begins to bloom and stir,
The world blossoms around her, for her, within her.
 
In every seed, in every thread,
in songs once played and words unsaid,
She gathers all that passed her by,
Let it breathe, and let it rise.
 
And in that space where seen meets unseen,
She softens into what has always been.
 
You may not know her
Yet there she is
Becoming one with the universe
Claiming her presence.
 
---
Berî Şevê is about presence in a world that often overlooks and underrepresents. She exists in a patriarchal structure, yet she is not defined by it. Her stillness is not passiveness. It is her control, her awareness and her daring.
She does not need to move to be powerful or to speak to be heard.
She simply is. And in that existence, she becomes rooted, unowned, unbroken.
She sits beneath a pomegranate tree, still but fully present.
 
This work is the first of an ongoing series dedicated to underrepresented women; beginning with a Kurdish woman who carries her roots and culture on her body.
Her tattoos are not ornamental.
They are history, inheritance and memory carried through generations of women.
Beside her rests a tef, a symbol of rhythm, voice, and cultural expression.
It is silent, yet it speaks.
She is surrounded by a world made of floral fabric.
A real, inherited texture like culture itself, something you are born into, shaped by, and sometimes dissolve into.
 
So her body blends into this world.
But she is not disappearing. She is claiming.
 
 
 
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