SlideShare a Scribd company logo
1
2
3
A FARMER’S CHANTS
Selected Prose Poems
ANWER GHANI
4
A FARMER’S CHANTS
Selected Prose Poems
ANWER GHANI
Second Edition
Arcs Publishing House
Iraq
5
Contents
Contents........................................................................................................5
Preface ..........................................................................................................8
The author..................................................................................................10
Colored Hearts .........................................................................................11
The Old Castle...........................................................................................12
The Faint Light..........................................................................................12
Silvery Chants............................................................................................13
A Farmer from the South..........................................................................13
Dead Dreams..............................................................................................14
Simple Man ................................................................................................15
Rainy Wishes..............................................................................................16
BIRDS .........................................................................................................16
The Gypsy Girl ..........................................................................................17
COLD PASSION .......................................................................................18
RIVERIES..................................................................................................19
FENCES .....................................................................................................19
Sad Shadow................................................................................................20
A Dry Breeze ..............................................................................................21
Sandy Man .................................................................................................22
Southern Daughters ..................................................................................22
Pink Wishes ..............................................................................................23
THE SOUL OF LIGHT ............................................................................24
Windy Moments.........................................................................................25
Whispers.....................................................................................................25
Grandmother’s Tales.................................................................................26
Red Winter.................................................................................................26
6
Valentine’s Birds........................................................................................27
A Magic Veil ...............................................................................................27
Colored Evening ........................................................................................28
Red Mantle.................................................................................................28
The Blind Man...........................................................................................29
SECRETS...................................................................................................30
Bizarre Souls..............................................................................................31
The Strange City........................................................................................31
A Strange holiday ......................................................................................31
The Door of Freedom ..............................................................................32
A Grey Winter .............................................................................................32
Warm Muteness.........................................................................................33
I Can't Die as Soldier ................................................................................33
Free Bird ....................................................................................................34
Salty Remnants..........................................................................................34
Our Earth...................................................................................................35
The Rocky Flowers....................................................................................37
MIRRORS..................................................................................................37
Old Farmer ................................................................................................38
The Bare Land...........................................................................................39
The Pain Land ...........................................................................................39
The Glamorous Gardens...........................................................................39
Summer is not beautiful............................................................................40
Our Crazy Summer...................................................................................40
The Faceless Land .....................................................................................41
A Thirsty Bean..........................................................................................41
The Dark summer .....................................................................................42
The River Face...........................................................................................43
7
Al-Mehdi.....................................................................................................43
Arab River..................................................................................................44
River’s Tales...............................................................................................44
Magic Wind ...............................................................................................45
The Colorless City ....................................................................................45
Blind Wind ................................................................................................46
The Blind City...........................................................................................46
Violet Tales .................................................................................................47
Nothing in my Depth but the Loss ........................................................47
Dreamy Butterflies.....................................................................................48
The Blind Hotels........................................................................................48
Crying.........................................................................................................49
Gray Buterflies ..........................................................................................49
The Spring’s Lover....................................................................................50
I Love the Writers......................................................................................50
A Bloody lake .............................................................................................50
A Bitter Soul...............................................................................................50
He Who Saw Light.....................................................................................51
Gray Bird ...................................................................................................53
The Silent Tree...........................................................................................53
The Glorious Friday..................................................................................54
ILLUSION .................................................................................................55
The Cloud Tales .........................................................................................56
Remote Perfume ........................................................................................56
8
Preface
The realistic imagination and the narrative imagery are the exact
explanation of the prose poems of “Farmer’s Chants”.
Poetry is a mirror and the text is the vehicle so the poetic text in its
essential existence is a big mirror. When we use prose to bring poetry,
in fact we make another mirror and when we narrate our lyricism, this
is an additional mirror. So narrative prose poetry is a very complex
system of mirrors and in every poetic moment, there is a mirror.
"Farmer’s Chants" is a narrative lyric writing with superficial narrative
structure and a deep lyricism.
Everything tries to present in a full transfiguration state. Poetry as
anything also tries to present in a full transfiguration. Freedom is
essential for poetry and its full revelation.
In the world of prose poetry, we find the anti-narrative
narrative writing. For me the prose poem is a poetic text has been
written in one block, horizontal shape and depends the anti-narrative
narrative writing and abstract expressionistic disclosure.
In Literature, there are poetry, prose and in the middle, prose
poetry according to the characters of the superficial and deep structures
of the speaking. Every speaking or its writing has a superficial
structure which is the first construction and the understanding level in
the hearing or reading process, and a deep structure which is the
analytic and semantic level in this system. While poetry characterized
by rhythmic superficial and deep structures, the prose in contrary to
this has characterized by unrhythmic superficial and deep structures.
But in the prose poetry we find the unrhythmic superficial structure
and the rhythmic deep one, and this is the cause of hybridization in the
prose poetry. So the prose poetry is a hybrid of prose and poetry and
the rhythmic and unrhythmic writing.
The prose poetry can be produced with a narrative or lyric
manner. If the style is lyric in both superficial and deep layers, there
will be the lyric prose poetry, while if the style was narrative in both
9
superficial and deep layers; there will be the narrative prose poetry. But
we can find the superficial narrative structure with the deep lyric
structure. In this case there will be the hybrid of Narrato-lyric prose
poetry, and this the second hybrid inside the first hybrid of prose-
poetry. So in the narratolyric prose poetry as Farmer’s Chants poetry
is a hybrid inside a hybrid.
From the themic point, the poems have been written between
2016-2018 and the corner stone in their themes are tow thing; the first
the affect of the wars on the human souls and the second; the
glorification of simple life.
So the “Farmer’s Chants” is the imaginary narrative of war’s
sadness and realistic glorification of simplicity.
10
The author
Anwer Ghani, is an Iraqi award winner poet. He was born in 1973 in
Hilla. He is a consultant nephrologist and the religious scholar is the
author of more than seventy books, most of them in Arabic and the
English books are eleven. His name has appeared in more than thirty
magazines and more than ten anthologies in USA and UK. He received
the achievement certificate from Stratfor University; India branch in
2017, and nominated as best poet in the world by World Nations
Writers Union in 2017 and the Rock Pebbles Award in 2019. Anwer’s
poetry characterized by the realistic imagination and narrative
imaginariness and concentrates on the sadness of wars and
glorification of simple life.
11
Colored Hearts
The hearts of birds are so hidden so I can't see them very well.
Sometimes I decide to open my sorcerous woody box to see the exact
color of these runaway hearts. They are very antique and when you
want to overturn their leaves you will smell the perfumes of the old
southern adventures. No moon can sit in the corners of these colored
hearts because their brilliant rays will blind the daring eyes of the sun.
No clear roads in the depth, just wide space its infinite moments
amaze you heart. I feel it; this amazement penetrating us as an old
tale. On its hand we find all the colored souls which put on our lips’
eternal kisses. Their hands rain astonishment over our heads and their
smiles plant the colored roses in our corners. Please touch them
softly; they are as delicate as a dream of a shy girl.
When we saw these colored shadows, their whispers penetrate us
very fast, and when we smell the fragrance of their revelations, the
sun slept in our dreams as a blue butterfly. In a matchless moment;
an absent moment, all the warm letters and the deep ecstasies
dissolve in us as sugar; that is when we touched these shadows and
heard their colored wishes.
Pale Land
This is what I see, what I feel and what my moments talk with. I am from
here; from this earth; the title of pallor. No moon here and no lovers; nothing
here just pale tears. I will go deeply in the pain’s tales. I will hide from the
life eyes because I am just a pale remnant.
Please touch me but touch me smoothly because I am a pale remnant. My
mouth is full with absence and my heart is filled with illusion. Please touch
me; I want to feel myself and to know that I am a pale soul; I mean a cheap
soul. Here in my land everything is pale and liking to hide even me. Here, in
my land; the land of pale tears, everything is sad and pale even the sun.
The blood colors our brooks with its redness but it lets our faces very pale. I
am from the pale land where you can’t see colored flowers and can’t hear
melodic birds. Look at our boys; they are pale and look at our girls; they are
pale. The trees here are pale, the rivers are pale and the hearts are pale. Our
12
lips are pale, our hands are pale and our eyes are pale. In fact, we are just pale
remnants.
The Old Castle
We have an old castle we inherited from our ancestors. Its mantle is
grey, and its rivers are very short. They had made its legs from the
clipped bamboo and its head from the seething tales but when you
open its bone you will find just timeworn paper, and when we try to
kiss its mouth there is nothing but illusions.
Yes, I know that you have high castles I need very potent eyes to see
their middle ornaments but their trees know very well that the lovely
wells are thirsty and their pale leaves fall on my head with the sad
stories. Yes, I know that I have a very old castle vaporizing every night
with smooth winds, but my grandfather said that those wind are
coming from the high castle.
Yes, our hands are so coarse, and our trees are so brown but there is
nothing in our hearts but breezy tales. Our eyes can see the sunset
with its amazing colors when it sleeps near our castle. You should take
a step to see our magic afternoons and to hear the very melodic
chants of our birds. Despite our sad rivers, we don't attempt to plant
tears in your fields and despite our love for your cream, we didn’t try
to eat your creamy castles.
The Faint Light
When my eyes see that faint light, the entire hidden thoughts dance
with strange shadows in deep asking about that light which
penetrates my silence evenly. You may want to see my soul jumping
over the grass with these shadows; you may like to know how this
13
faint light embodies my dreams, my thoughts and my truth. You might
not know that you are that faint light.
I am a farmer from the south where there is no light or moon. My skin
is a swimming goose and my eyes are a dawn’s waiter. But, in a hidden
night, where our birds were sleepy and my father jar has immersed in
its deep dream, I saw dancing light in our orchard. We have no light
but that dancing light has visited us in an absent night.
Silvery Chants
I am nothing but a boat its wing has silvery chants I can't tell you their
secrets. When the silvery voice showed me its soul, all the deep
whispers dissolved in my dream as a sleepy rose. I can tell you
another mystic glance; there are slivery seas, and you can feel their
fingers touch your depth with calm astonishment. No, I am not a
sorcerer, but I am just a passenger can’t sit on our bough when my
talk about the bright horses. There were cities of a sliver its whispers
touch our window with smiles, penetrate our depth without delay and
invade our souls with a deep salute. I was just a young child, and you
can't expect to find in my pocket any fairies but our land is the daughter
of a silvery voice. Yes, I was just a smooth southern child sits on our
bough with slivery chants in his small pocket."
A Farmer from the South
14
I am a farmer from the south bring nothing in my pocket but oranges.
Look at my face, it is brown and look at my hands, they are white. I
am from here, from the south; an Eastern man with a dreamy soul. Yes,
I am a dreamer from the south; my heart bears nothing but simple love
and my mouth smiles without cause.
I'm an old farmer, know the amazing colors of the flowers’ hearts
where the blue dreams wear their shiny dresses and the whispers make
a sunny cake for the morning’s birds. When the squirrel travels through
the green songs, all the flavors take their pink veils and when the rivers
chant their daring stories, every girl immerse in her blue dreams. They
fill the times with a stormy passion and plant smiles in our dry deserts.
In their sleepy eyes, you can see the river’s secrets and from their loud
whispers, you may know the silent wishes.
Dead Dreams
My grandfather had a ship, but I think he could not imagine the size of
my dream. I mean my motionless dream. I also have a ship, but I have
no wings and no feet. Here, in my chest there is nothing but crippled
wishes. I mean beautiful wishes but there are no roads nor trains. In
other words; I am a lifeless man immersed in this useless dream. Please
look at me; do you see our dry sea? And look at our ship; it is just an
illusion. Yes, it is just a ship of dead dreams.
I am so sad that my soul is useless and my life is a bag of dreams. My legs
are crippled and my arms are very short. Oh, the great world please give me
a wing, just a single small wings, so I can see that lower windows. No I not
an under-earth creature but there is no sun, no moon here, and we live our
days blindly and simply. Yes, we are out of date but we, as you, have dreams,
and we, as you, have wishes.
15
Simple Man
I am a simple man from the south where the green dreams color the
sun’s eyelashes. My smile is dizzy but my eyes are brilliant so I can
travel through the infinity as a shadow. Now I see a light; it is slivery
and soft as the moon. I see a brave ship swimming in my destroyed
ocean. It is flying in my illusion with birds’ tales. Yes, I am here, with
this motionless body; a young Eastern man drowns in his shameful
hesitance.
The dark sands hide my butterflies behind the illusions and distribute
the roses of death on the roads. They are blind like our sunset which
has no face. It leaves me alone in the cold night tales, but from the dry
air I will make my milk and from its bronze breath I will make a river.
Yes, I am the son of sand sitting on the top of the hill, repeating old
songs. I am a grey body know nothing about the sun. It’s me, the simple
man who was growing in salty desert; my dreams travel with the
evening like migratory birds and my life is so neglected like a cat under
the rain.
I am living in a faceless desert, so you can't see the carousels in my
heart, and all what I can imagine is my gray stick. We should be good
and laughing as exactly as my grandfather, but I am a simple man know
nothing about the grass. This earth, which I always love, stands over
my shoulder with cold extremities, so I can't see her gloomy face, but
I grope everything in her corners.
16
Rainy Wishes
The face of earth will be grim without the childish jumping of the rain drops.
Yes, rain is a pleasant bending which had planted the ambergris in the hearts
of our farmers. My ancestors have taught their souls the abysmal waiting, and
kneaded their mud with its tales, so you may see them sitting in their narrow
gardens with rainy wishes. They look at the sky and whispering with
yearning. Yes, you are right; I am the inheritor of silence and rainy wishes.
The rain is the yearning’s tear. I remembered when the sky had
ascended towards the throne; she remained looking at her sister; the
earth, with deep passion. Silently she was sending kisses with the
wind’s wings, but when the yearning fires, her eyes tear with rain. Yes,
the rain drops are the grieving tears of a lucent soul.
I like rain because it is the portrayal of love. His color was wet, but
warm and his hand was shivery but kind. He comes at evening as an
old tale hugs the small leaves with big passion. When we get lost in
our rainy moments, we find a breeze embracing our bare souls. I can’t
imagine how it will be miserable, if I can’t see rain drops’ dancing.
BIRDS
17
Here, on our earth, the birds are brown, and their hearts are delicate
like women. You can see our palms; they are pretty, and you can see
our birds; they are wise like the builders of Uruk. The obscurant
strangers had tried to steal my grandmother colored carpet, but our
amazing birds have unwound their magic and negated their wicked
amulets.
I am so happy because our earth has a colored dress and her birds are
still in deep love despite all these dark nights of wars. Our birds are
neither lame nor ugly, but the dark wind is so tough and liar. I am
always standing under that tree and when the sun opens her eyes, I see
how our birds kiss the smiling earth passionately.
Our birds are very smart song singers; at morning they teach me the
warm passion and at evening they plant in my depth the quite peace.
What a lucky man I am; with these true avian narrators, I can cross the
magic oceans and hear the hidden desires of the remote fairies. I am
not a romance narrator, but I want to tell you that our earth is still
beautiful and our birds are still lovers.
The Gypsy Girl
I like our quiet lakes and their reviving breeze, where the water’s
eyes are always sleepy. You can't imagine its red cheek in the
winter nights. I remember when my mother had made a nice hat
for it. My mother is so expert in the seasonal souls and she told me
that Autumn is a gypsy girl. I didn't see Autumn, but I am sure that
my mother saw her because she described her face precisely. She
told me that Autumn flies between the trees’ branches as a small
bird and leaving her veil weaving airily in our souls. Sometimes I
18
feel that Autumn is a fairy and you may see her stormy tale
swimming deeply in our dreams’ water. My grandfather also
expert in seasonal souls and he had a beautiful horse filled with
compassion. I didn't see her, but they said that she was legendarily
brave. My family might have possessed a wagon. I don't know and
I didn't ask about this, but I think if we had one, it will be closed as
the desert’s souls. I am an Arabia man and you know there is
nothing here but desert, so I decided to bring a gypsy wagon to my
home to learn my children the freedom and some tales about the
gypsy girl.
COLD PASSION
It has stolen any possible warmth from the bag of my days, so I
was delightedly standing under that tree as a damp bird. This lovely
coldness intentionally cuts my skin with her hidden knife, and
destroying my face like a frozen lake’s water. She had fiercely
slapped my face, so you are seeing the redness on my cheek every
morning.
I am a man of the twenty-first century and my legs had dipped in
the soul of the earth as an old cow. I don't like the darkness, or its
cold voice, but my hand was frosted as a woman’s coat and my
friends’ hearts were hung on the absent trees of our coldness.
Our sun has a thick veil and many daughters with hard hearts; they
are lightless and cold. Everything under our cold sun is icy and
soundless even our evenings which they were travelling between
the ambergris as a blind grasshopper. They are as an eternal hero
eating all the beauty and building on our back all the glory. Please
don’t ask me about their skirts or hair, because in addition to my
blindness they have cloudy faces and we know that they had
arrived from their cold winds.
19
RIVERIES
The River’s Flowers
When the morning starts his journey, and the squirrel travels through
his green songs, all the flavors take their azure veils. The flowers, the
women, and the old farmers know the amazing colors of the river’ tales
where the blue dreams wear light dresses and the faint whispers make
an aurorean cake from the early dawn smiles. The time is an absent
moment without the rivery passion, and the places are just dry deserts
without its colors. Through their hidden secrets, we see our sleepy
dreams and from their loud wishes, we write poetry with hidden letters.
The blue flowers of our river try to see the womanish glances that teach
the world its marvelous existence and give the life its shining love.
When the days try to sing their beauty, they will intonate their magic
chants and when the rainbow decides to wear its colors, it will take
from their beautiful cloaks. Yes, the magic lands see their wonderful
smiles on the face of our river flowers, and the winds can’t find her
eardrops without its mirrors. The rivery wind is a legendary tale
penetrating our depth with her stormy love. It colors our world with its
unique flavor, gives the life its spicy taste and its glances teach the
hearts their yearning. The river is our wavy essence, and the wind is a
free woman with an orange mantle.
FENCES
Fish is pure, and a real water lover, so it will promptly die without
its kisses. The fish, unlike me, knows nothing but the truth, and
does anything to live with freedom. When the blindness puts weirs
20
on the river's chest, I heard a fish’s voice and I saw the blood. The
weirs are a face of death, absence, and stealing, but when you look
at my hands, you may know that I am a smashed weir. I am neither
a horse nor a rabbit and when the sunset kisses their old wood I
realize the sweetness of the fence-less life, but when all these
horses with their heroes stand on my back, at that time I will
remember our war’s children. You know, grass is green and the
horses are attractive, but who will love my small rabbit? Because
of this, I will die alone in a dark soul away from your hard fences
and bitter hints. I will live in the horse's forehead, behind the
lovely fences. I mean behind any heartiness. Yes, I remember my
grandmother’s white fabric which she had used as a barrier to make
the cheese. In fact, I had liked that barrier because I did not like
milk and because it is real andwhite but you see our days’ barrier;
they are red and gloomy. They are, like my heart, bitter and dark
and their hands filled with lie.
Sad Shadow
I am a dry leaf from Iraq, know nothing about the beauty or artists,
and all what I know is the blood and tales of the war. Here, in my
broken chest, is a pale boy, lives in this wide earth with a small soul
and walks in this shining world with a hidden face. My trees are
gray and my dreams are sad shadows. When I open my twilight, I
hear our weepy birds, and when I close my evening, I saw our
killed moon.
I am an Iraqi man, and my soul was kneaded with the war’s tales.
Our streets, which are immersed in the war’s perfume, had
straggled in the desert of the sadness, and like our girls, they
always dream of fireless days. We are here, under worry clouds,
waiting migrant holidays, but our legs had inherited the gloomy
21
faces. Here, in my crying earth, no rose, and you can’t see but sad
rivers. Here, in my city, you find the coarse moon which is the son
of our caudex.
A Dry Breeze
The evening with its breeze has planted in my soul an unforgettable
tales. I don't like the crying, and as any man, I wish to fall in a deep love,
but you see my smashed tress and my lonely streets. I am a man from
the ruined land; My dreams were killed as a beautiful bird and my smile
was stolen in a bright day. I am standing under that dry tree as a shadow
without feet or head. I try to cry and always attempt to wash my bitter
heart, but the stormy wind is constantly coloring my soul with a dry
breeze. It is delicate as a green apple. Under its wings, the town lives
with quiescence, and the swans dance like sun songs. The field’s birds
with their vivid colors, bath over its swings with delight. Wet leaves fill
the street with morning songs and moisten the girls’ hearts with the
dreams. It comes from a remote land on softness’ wing. Its sleepy
eyelashes color my blue dreams with pearl taste. They are so bashful,
but they inspire my body an unforgettable heartbeat. They hit my head
by their stones, so I feel incompetent. In their hands the gentle Saba
breeze appeared more peaceful. How can I touch their tales?
22
Sandy Man
I feel your soul and I can grasp all the romantic night stars but I can't
love you because I am a sandy man know nothing but dryness. Yes, I
hear your voice and I can see your face but I can't love you because I
am a sandy man bear nothing but sadness. Believe me I have immersed
in every awesome strange moment and I can smell perfume of the sea
flowers but I can't love you because I am just a war remnant has no
heart
My times are always alone, and my birds are always pale, so all my
nights are shivering and all my fish can't speak loud, but in the midst
of this coldness I can hear the ocean, and his soul colors my heart with
a lovely blue warmness.
I am from the south; my skin is brown and it becomes darker when I
hear about the giant salmon of Japan. I have an amazing coffee
coloring my days but the story does not start from my grandfather’s
coffee beans because my coffee is of instant type. Now I will tell you
a secret; I am a farmer and I feel so delight when I vanish in our
coffee’s flavor so you may see brown veils cover my face, but be
careful, don’t touch me because I am a sandy man.
Southern Daughters
I am from the south where the trees are dry and the rivers are
waterless. Our sky is dark and our sun is fogy. I am from that south
where everything is colorless. The fields have daughters but the
streets are always blind. These daughters are always smiling with
eyes fraught with hidden tears. Their hearts are sad and their dreams
23
have broken wings. Our southern daughters are miracles and their
braids give the sea its lucid blueness. They are secret daughters of the
sea living in the fields as a butterfly. Their colored wings bring
agreeable water from a remote well and their breaths make me swim
in a remote lake. They are beautiful but strange and brilliant but
hidden. Their glowing faces have been covered by a dark veil and
their clement hearts have been smashed by my primitiveness. Yes,
they are the secret springs’ daughters; their wings make me swim in
a remote sea. You may see their summer, but you need a butterfly’s
heart to touch their shining faces.
Pink Wishes
Her, in my land, you can see everything, but be careful because our
well are pink and dreamy. Her, in my land, you may find me at that
bough with a pink face and a pink voice, but be careful because the
wind her is also pink. Her, in my heart you will find yourself but be
careful because your pink wishes will disappear very fast.
I am a farmer from the desert; look at my old mantle and you will
know the story. Yes; there may be hidden whishes in my heart but
believe me there is nothing here just pink wishes. In an absent
morning, I had felt dreamy and I saw phantoms of these wishes. Yes,
24
greenery can occur in the desert as an absent dream. Just believe me.
I am the farmer from a green desert.
THE SOUL OF LIGHT
When the roads open their eyes, all the blue fish come to my sea. The
road is a smile exits its pink ear from that window which sleeps on my
mother hand. Without any delay, I am disappearing in its light where
the warmness wears its whit coat. My heart, like a bird on an icy bough,
will immerse in that moment comes from her chant; the soul of light.
My love is that wind which can bring all the sky clouds, and that grass
which hugs all the world goats, but the mother love is a different world
and impossible in its oneness.
When the morning’s happiness poured, and the foggy shadow
secluded, at that moment I knew that the sun had a pure splendid face
and the wings of light went to laugh with their full days. When the
mask of darkness falls, I will see all the towers and the glorious rain
chants on your hands, where the secret springs of the universe have
been immersed in the dust of clayish towns and misted by their brown
breeze. I saw your azure trees smiled at the waterfalls and your
carnelian submerged in ice tobacco of Mashu Mountain. The white
wings of your blooming spirit told the earth the tales of light which had
been colored by a shawl of a girl gathering the date from her
grandfather orchard. So, the mightiness of earth bends with
astonishment at your old glitter and flies as spatial vehicle had seen a
new face of the moon.
25
Windy Moments
In our windy boat, you can see all the blue colors, and the deep lands of
the dreams. When you reach those remote lands and when you see my
pain, please ignite a candle in our cold night, and make this sleepy world
know something about the truthful light. I know; you can't remember
the souls of the flowers which know nothing but beauty but when you
drown deeply in our dreams and when you meet all the possible
illuminations, at that time you may find the windy finger of the poet.
With it, we have crossed the seas of sound where the magic fields
singing their ballads. At these windy moments, some secret souls
greeted us warmly and as a dazzled butterfly, we ended in love of this
earth and exited from its fissures with a crown of heavy years.
Whispers
Do you know anything about the sea’s whispers? Do you see the smiles
which reside behind his veil? The sunset loves the sea, where the sun
combs the hair of the fish and draw smooth seasons on his tales. I heard
his whispers; they are filled with true. I saw his dream in a precious
moment, it is blue and brilliant.
It whispered from there: Where will you find your story? The violet
roses are sleepy, and the mirrors follow the white trees. The birds and
the fabled river know that moment, which needs a smile and warmth.
It said: the river colors are descended from that balcony and they should
kiss the eyes of flower seller. It whispers: when the moon sleeps in your
lids, you will know a new kiss and you will see the cloud flowers. I will
26
drown in the yearning sea. I will hug that train where we met sleepy
sounds, so from there, my story will begin.
Grandmother’s Tales
I love the moon because his smile is shining like the tales of my
grandmother. She was whispering every night in my dreams’ ear, and
telling me the story of colorful birds in that remote land. She was a good
narrator, and sometimes her narrative surpasses our narrative poetry. I
saw her ocean and sat beside its shore in that warm world. I told her my
story and inform her about my shivering years, which the gray souls had
eaten their peels. I told her that I don’t like to cry, but you see there is
no place for my smile. Those bloody souls had stolen my life. They said
that the body is the cause of the sadness, but I found no truth in their red
voices. I had heard my grandmother’s tales and she whispered in my
deep that the love of the moon doesn't need blood.
Red Winter
You sit there, on that bough with my dream, but I can't see your beauty
because my eyes were drowning in the winter redness. I am a red man
from the red land; my coat is worn and my soul is smashed. No summer
here and no spring flowers; just a red winter.
Our trees have a red moaning so you see a red voice comes from their
astonishing remnants. They are trying to come back from their
alienation. They try to inhale ardor of love but a crazy fire colors them
with red nectar. Yes, the desert air is so dry and there are a lot of red
plants, and red animals. There is nothing here but redness and shadows
of lives. The water is red here, the air is red and the love rose is red.
27
Valentine’s Birds
I am not a tree and can’t sleep in the hearts of these springs, but
the lovers have made a home for valentine’s birds which they know
nothing but love and say nothing but chants. They are the creatures
of light; from their journeys, all the beginnings started, and on their
hands, you can see the chants lying with inner peace. Those
valentine’s birds stand under love’s trees and give me an amazing
kiss but my days, like my poems, are grey and tasteless, and they
oftentimes asked me to throw them from that old bridge. Yes, I am
an old lover who can’t drink his coffee without s ardent tears and
his wide heart passionately disappeared in the remote cities where
the souls can’t say anything but love. Yes, I will bring a jar of
valentine’s smiles from those cities to color my grey days. I will
tell my land that love is a colored treasure I saw before the wedding
of the sun and the growing up of the grass, so our earth will wear a
white dress, our shy whispers will breathe kindhearted gazes, and
our birds will sing their chants.
A Magic Veil
My palm tree is as beautiful as Abigail. Her eyelash is tall as a river
and her veil had come with the ancestors’ souls to unloose our tight
dreams. I can feel her wavy pulse and I can see her treasurable earnings
behind the shawl. Near her foot, there is a spring of magic water, and
beside her wishes I see my face which had been stolen as a yellow bird.
Yes, we have a thick curtain, which is unintentionally colored by our
pale moments and, she is, without delay, coming in the evening with
the strange winds to comb our ragged hair. In fact, I can’t differentiate
her mien from the faces of our days, and because of this confusion,
sometimes I think that she is my mother. She was standing there to
lessen the voice of the light and to magnify our internal awareness, but
because of its redness, she has always recalled the sad stories of our
stolen life and the insolent visages of the wars.
28
Colored Evening
Our dreams have a colored evening, which refreshes the hearts as
smiling girl. We liked its whispers, but when its letters take their real
shapes there is nothing but sadness. We are, as the blind trees, knowing
nothing about its breeze and all what we know is a constant trying to
live and a continuous attempt to catch the remnant of this wide world.
Our hand is so hot like the soul of sunset. They have burnt our hearts
with its passion, so you can't see here but flowers. It comes with its
reviving breeze to open our doors, but I am the blind son knows
nothing about its amazing orange. It can fill my lung with rebels’
breaths and vanish my dreams in the freedom’s wings. I have emerged
from its dress’s weaving, as a butterfly and disappeared in its red colors
as a remote land.
Red Mantle
Life sits on her high chair and looks at me with a hidden smile. She
knows that war had stolen our rainbow, and had left me as bare as a
rock. Yes, I am a gray man, know nothing about the vivid perfumes,
and my dreams are faded as an old wood. Do you see these fissures on
29
our earth? They are our girls’ heart; they need some water. Everything
will be velvety when our thirsty souls find the water of peace.
My mantle was red; I am the son of wars, and all that you can see is
my crippled remnants. I don’t remember anything about the peaceful
dresses, because our town brides were killed before their weddings,
and our land’s face was smashed by the unknown. Now, we are
loveless and know nothing about the moon’s tales. We are always
looking for our lost dresses in this white and wide world. Here, we
can't see our hands because they disappear in the mouth of war, and we
can't hear our voices because they drown in its absent ocean.
The Blind Man
Here, in my crying earth, there is nothing but pale faces and rhyme of
a red pain. My eyes see nothing but the empty sea and I can feel the
rocky hands of the world destroying my doors. Oh blind world, I can't
see your heart and I remember very well when you told me about your
colored trees but when you put your head on the bellow, you should
remember our children and their bloods in your rivulets. Your blind
winds have seen all beauties on riverbanks so they can't understand the
causes of the salt bloods in our water. They can see our pond but there
are no beavers in it because of these salt souls push them to run away
as strange butterflies. You told me about their magic amazement but
believe me I can’t see but a blind wind destroying my dreams. It is a
memory comes from faraway lands and told us about the adventure
30
which had sat in our depth. It always told me that the wind is a strange
leaf misleading us with illusions but when we sleep, we see its face
clearly. At that moment, it will show us its cold stories. I am not a big
delusive mirror, but I feel that I am a colored shadow seeking a unique
flower, and when I find her, she says: Oh the seeker, sometime you
need to be blind to see clearly. I hear her voice, and see her face in my
heart, because I am a blind man.
SECRETS
When the sleepy leaves saw my red birds, I dissolved madly in the
silent voices. Please, behold my shelved life; it is the beauty of my
waste love. Yes, I am inchoate, so you see my words trundle freely
and insanely. I am a suntanned man but not nebulous, so I can
count my fingers easily because I am midget as the old tidbits of
my mother. I am from here; from the south. I am always
disappearing in our founts’ secrets. Please look at our faces; when
you see our eyes, you will find our secrets totally nonsecret, and
all that strange tales will reach your heart before the morning
paean. Look at our earth, we are the farmers from the south; our
dreams sleep before the columbine and our sadness juts out from
this land’s furrows as shadows know nothing about the secrets of
eternal love.
Yes, it is me; a farmer from the south. My hair is grassy and my
dream is heavy like an old train. If you touch my heart you will see
the stream secrets and if you open my treasure you will find the
colored stones. Yes, I can escort the sunset and catch its red roses
but I know nothing about their chants. Now, I will tell you a secret;
don’t love a farmer, because his feelings are inchoate and his
passion is volcanic all the time.
31
Bizarre Souls
The life is so vacant without salt of the babyish Souls. They color our
rocky hearts with their frivolity and give the small hares their flying
winds. If your old trees had taught you the antique aloofness, you
should discover your babyish spring’s warmness. I am not a delusional
man but I know that the bizarre souls are the blood of our world.
I feel their warm colors and unwinds them in my dreams. their voices
were silvery like hidden waterfalls and their palms are smooth like the
sorcery moons. You can see the sunset in their eyes while they chant
the lucent songs. The corners are colored by their brown shadows and
barefoot boys jump over their grass as squirrels and fill their winds
with faint smiles. It is so amazing to see smiles in my earth; the land
of the bizarre souls.
The Strange City
We live in our earth under the wings of Azzalan. It was my
grandfather’s rivulet, where he had trenched it in an angry moment, so
our souls were filled with warm songs. Despite all these purity in my
skin, I am as well as any Iraqi young turning my eyes toward the
anonymous city. I want to die cheaply, and to live in humiliation in that
strange city which filled my heart with a colored loneness and an
incisive coldness.
A Strange holiday
The holiday is a very delicate thing. We learned it in our childhood, as
we learned to carry our bags. It is smooth as a summer dream, filling
our chests with spring butterflies. I was very happy when I touch his
heart. Its waterfalls amazed me. They were calm as girl braids. That
32
holiday, which we saw him in someday, and we feel his sleepy hands; I
see it clearly when it plants the wet tales. That holiday, which is coming
from faraway town, stands with its silky coat in the middle of the street
as a strange man. It dissolves in our veins as a passion letter. I was very
wrong when I assumed him an emigrant goose.
The Door of Freedom
I will vanish in love of Euphrates like smooth fish. I will learn the red
chant so the free land smiles for its lovers. It is my beginning towards
the warm skies and my story in a waterfall kissing the walkers’
foreheads. From there, the spikes of wheat radiate with thousand
lights fill the earth lungs with new dawn. The souls will be barren
without red tears. Look at Husain’s voice, the wide door of freedom.
Look at the sadness of eternity and softly fumble its bashful bracelet;
the space of the hopeful sun. He is the freedom’s kiss I will dissolve
in its love without delay. He is the Euphrates’ true saying and a story
doesn’t know any dreamy song. Listen to his scream: "There should
be a new dawn saving this drowning world.
A Grey Winter
Winter is a cruel knife cuts my joints with a cold blood. He isn’t smiling; he is
grey just like my dream. This winter which I feel vigorously is not kind, and
you can see the sad tears in its pocket. His rain colors my soul with pale smiles
and his hard whisper plants unforgettable tales in my deep memory. In that
grey winter, the birds don’t shiver because of love; they just shake their feather
enjoying the winter’s stories. Here, winter dresses a different color and
a different cruelty and all that can I see are these pale
shadows. Here, winter isn’t tenderhearted; it is my grandfather’s gloomy field
where the bean swings over its grass as a sad bride. I am the son of winter; my
ancestry had left me alone in this frosted lake. Look at my face; it is
colorless; feel my hands; they're short and dead. The pain is deep in this grey
winter, and the smiles have left our garden without goodbye. In its nights I am
33
just a shadow over cold trees and in its days, I am a blind owl. This winter is
blind and dry, nothing here but cold smiles and white dead flowers. Believe
me, I have tried to plant a pink rose but the hands of this blind winter freeze
my heart. Its gray mantle knows the roads of my mute lip and the coolness of
my faceless moon.
Warm Muteness
Can you hear my warm muteness? Can you touch all that warmness?
You are there, on that remote bough seeing my cold veil. It covers my
ardent yearning with frigid smile and colored my torrid wings with cold
feathers. Can you feel? The winter’s chants leave in my street's
unforgotten memories. Their cold moments are filled with silence. They
freeze me as an old forest tree. The wretched ships vomit the eternal
pain and the snowy trains penetrate my ears. They hide me in this wide
space as a strange end and deluged me in vapor so you see my words
have dropped in the slime and my flowers have run away.
In a cold night, my vehicle has lost its eardrops. The pain was deep and
the smiles have left our garden like hoopoe. At that time, I was a shadow
between the trees of a remote owl. They are strange, dry and blind but
there are smiles and white flowers. I had tried to bring a flower but that
cold night was thick, red and its heart had a gray mantle. Now, I think
you know the causes of quiescence of our mute lips and coolness of our
faceless corner.
I Can't Die as Soldier
This is my heart stumbles between the valleys. Its feet are made from
bitter ice and its eyes are remnants of a brassy sound. I had searched
for long time; I searched in every place my fingers reach. I searched in
my gray color, and I searched in my descent but I did not find a picture
of soldier. I know that I am impure and blind but I should find my
34
pureness to see the picture of that soldier who longs for free death. I
am now so sorry because I can't die as soldier and I know that the life
has a smile which can't be seen but by the soldier death. I am standing
here every day as a strange bird; I am standing here lonely and listening
to that voice; my heat voice. Yes, I am standing here every day awaiting
return of my pure soul to die as a soldier.
Free Bird
I am an old farmer cannot see my figure, but on the water face. It was
small like my dream. At that time, I had been a child dissolved in the
butterfly colors. Oh, the purity which they steal it. They take our smooth
olive, make missile from it, and then they told me that I am a serious
plant.
Yes, without tiredness I shall repeat the birds’ songs, I should not care
about the world brassy face, nor the one-eyed city. Yes, I shall learn the
earth the rose voice, and the lonely winds won’t find a place in my skin.
I am a free bird loving the mud smell, and because my father planted
me with our wheat, I like the noon sun when it touches my face. You
can feel my pulse with its great tales of blind sand where the echo groans
as a yellow bird exhausted by rain. It narrates his bright pain with wide
eyes. The crying clouds are shameful because they dissolve his feather
and bring an autumn whoop filled with a yearning death. Oh the bitter
yearning, I am not happy and can't tell you my fiery passion, but you
should remember that yellow bird and his grey blood.
Salty Remnants
After all that warmness which overflowed me with falls of light, I find
myself just a crippled shadow. Here is my heart, look at it; do you see
35
anything except salt? I am the corpse which had been thundered by
deaf fever. I lean down on barefooted roads as a stranger, nothing
recognizes me but cold. In my salt soul I cannot see but groaning. This
is me: a salt shadow dreaming of waterish hand.
I am the son of war; know nothing but smoke and see nothing but
black colors. My rivers filled with salty tears and my dead children
lie on the dry streets as cheap rocks. Look at my hands; they were
smashed as a west paper, and look at my face which was stolen under
a bright sun. I don't want any song or any celebration. All my wishes
are to see my women without weeping and hearing my birds' chants
without crying. O, blind world, who was killing my dreams with a
cold blood. O, the humanity who had forgotten me as an extinct
creature. I am a man from Iraq, do you see me?
I am just a heap of salt remnants. Their ghosts ride on me as a blind
horse so I am good only in clashing with my trees. I do not see all that
glory but I can see a stone bleeding my feet and a harsh trunk cleaving
my head.
Our Earth
The colors of our trees tell you the story. This earth is our heritage and
without any delay, we disappeared in her fragrance. We are swimming
in her lakes like a fish and drown in her smiles as a sunset. Our earth
36
has lucent wings and her birds wear white coat, so you can imagine her
beauty.
Our days are mirrors of our souls and their smiles are the chants of
love. The night kisses are just echoing of the morning roses. They will
be white if the birds of our hearts are cloudless, and they will be gray
if our images are hard. They may show you the laugh or the tears and
you should remember that their flowers can't open their eyes in a hazy
sky. Our days are warmhearted; if their coldness burned your cheek in
the morning, their breeze will be amazing in the night.
Here is our white boat, where our dreams chanting their songs and our
happy moments blossom. Its warm woods appease my heart, and draw
on my pulse a butterfly searching your face. When you feel my husk
in your hands, and when you see my soul flying dreamily in front of
your eyes, at that moment you may remember our boat.
Gray Tale
I know the wars and their ugly voices, because I am their son. The war
is a gray tale, dressing her red mantle in lonesome nights. It had stolen
my blood and any smiley piece, so you may see nothing here but sad
moments. In the morning our children fill their eyes with hazy clouds
and in the evening, you can smell the odor of hungry souls. The walls
of our rooms are fissured like a smashed soul and the beds of our
brides are bloody like the colors of our streets. The Youngsters and
oldsters are sitting in the dark corners waiting their hazy fate, and
every hand here has nothing but paralysis. Without any sin we are
drowning deeply in the fired field, and you are, the reader, doesn't do
anything.
37
The Rocky Flowers
I remember my grandfather’s flowers; they were silent and colorless like
my life. They always filled with a fugacious blossom, and incessantly
hid with gray veils. Those rocky flowers have dressed my face his
unaccountable failures and as a womanish heart; they have colored my
life with their bitter passion. They have taught me the sadness since I
saw my earth’s tears, and as legendary heroes; they have filled my
streamlets with blood.
They are conqueror and has thousand songs, but I; the farmer from the
south; know nothing about them. They are slim and bright but their heart
is rocky. When they visit our city, our damask rose disappears quickly
and our wells become bloody. No warmth on their hands and no place
for my small dreams. Nothing there but empty spikes uncover their legs.
Believe me; all our sadness can’t be happened without the silence of
this soul which hides our dreams behind her lost head. It is here, in me,
this icy tale, which always kills cold bloodedly my days. She is not
beautiful at all, and in one day she shredded my kite fiercely. This
obscurant soul teaches my flowers the war’s songs, and slyly lies near
our riverbank with her dark sorcery. She is liar and blind like my moon.
MIRRORS
Our trees which wear their wishes are just mirrors swimming
delightedly in remote seas. Their shadows sit in midst of the universe
with blue chants. I know as any bird, that my mirrors need a new open
air, and the smoke of the wars had killed my wishes. I know as any
young soldier, that the black souls can’t buy my ambergris, and all the
remnants of the wars’voices are liars. We like the colors of the flowers
38
and the sounds of the waterfalls, but what can I do if our mirrors were
stolen in a blind night.
Their touches which descend in a dazzled evening can't stay in my
heart without scorch. My eyes are so small to see the beautiful life
which sits behind that mirrors. Please tell me; how that mirrors can
wash my dream while my soul combs her destruction without any
pain? I am a smashed shadow, so don’t try to see my face. At the
twilight, I try to kiss the faces of fairies and in the evening, I drown
delightedly in a hidden ocean. Now, you can see my shadowed soul
which sits on the blue chair with her silky veil. She always attempts to
catch these melodic colors and plant them on the ocean’s mirrors.
Old Farmer
I am an old farmer and all these lonely winds can't find place on my
tongue. Like a green leaf, I cannot see my face but in water and all
kisses of North Mountains share me my pillow. I love the sun when it
burns my cheeks and I madly love mud’s smell because my father had
planted me in our rivulet. Yes, I'm dissolving in our rivers as a young
butterfly and without tiredness I shall repeat the birds’ songs which
give our blue flowers their free wings.
It is me; a farmer from the south where the strangeness had drowned
in the gulf. My voice is a watery tale and my yearning is an absent
moment. Someday I had crossed into that sorcerous riverbank with a
boat of silence. I had looked at the face of the field when it chanted its
song. At that time I had met the travelers’ souls which gave me their
treasure. They gifted my ribs unforgettable beats and hid in my pocket
their eternal secrets.
I am a farmer know this earth perfume. I grew between its legumes like
a butterfly. Come here; look at the Euphrates’s sweetness. He doesn't
39
know any spite. With a brown garment and a headband, he descended
as a desert cavalier, so it is not strange to see all that sand covering his
face. Also, I will tell you about Uruk, the sleepy city, which was the
seven wise men built up its foundations. Come here; look at my palms,
and see how they are coarse like our trees. Because of this, you find the
darkness sits there, in that corner with its icy dress, and killing my
children.
The Bare Land
My life is salty like our grandfather’s brook which we try to plant trees
in its sand without benefit. Because of his angry moment he had named
"The angry stream; Azzalan" and because of its dead land they had
named its village; "The bare land, Alaria". Despite all the palms which
he had planted around it, you can't recognize its colorless face I am not
in the bare land, but its dry winds color my dreams.
The Pain Land
All the moments of pain are just roads. They take my loneliness to a
dark corner and teach it how to be familiar. The pain is a cold story
dresses its colored veil in amazing twilight. No one can know the gray
face of pain like Iraqis. No one can play the starring of eternal absent
more perfect than my land. Yes, I am from here, the pain land. My
father is the groaning and my mother is the weeping.
The Glamorous Gardens
The sun has two long braids, and goes out at dawn to her grandfather's
flourishing orchard. It resembles the glamorous Kashmiri gardens,
40
where the faces are pure reminding me of the ancestors and the white
apples are glimmering like pearls wrapping themself with silk.
They advised me to leave the purple coasts, because the truth is a free
bird. They told me that Iraq is the brother of sun. This was astonishing
news. If so, where are the orchards of our dear grandfathers? Where are
the thriving Kashmiri gardens?
Summer is not beautiful
Our summer is not beautiful because our girls have no new veils and
our children have no smiles. In summer the sea is windless and the sky
is cloudless but the eyes of this world are blind to see my bare body.
Summer is so lightweight and my house is summery in everything;
there is no sofa, no television and no life. Our morning is hot and empty
and our evening is dry and painful. Our summer is not beautiful
because its sun is dark and its tales are sad.
Our Crazy Summer
I am from the south where the sun is naked and the rivers are waterless.
I can't give you a rose because our summer is a skilled flower’s killer
and our butterflies had retired in an anonymous day. Our summer is
crazy; his hair is not combed and his rings are strange. If you see his
face you won't forget his scowl and if you touch his hand you won't
41
forget his coldness. Our summer is crazy and had taught us his bizarre
story so this world’s people don't like our walking and they always try
to push us from the bridge.
The Faceless Land
We can smell all the perfumes of ruinations because we are the sons
of war. Its eyes kill our dreams and its hands clap our cheeks. When
you walk in our land, you will tumble by our cheap souls and at that
dark corner you will meet the faceless boys. Yes, we are sons of wars;
our hands are empty and our souls are broken. The waterfalls can't
moisten our dry hearts, and the river can't revive our rocky roots.
No braid on our girls’ heads because war has stolen everything here
every the girls’ braids. Their lips are dry with deep fissures and their
faces and colorless like our days. Here, in Iraq everything is empty
even the souls of the girls. You won't see the childish jumps of their
feet or the playing smiles of their arms, but you will see thin legs and
a very dry well.
I am from the faceless land where everything weeps even the sun. Our
women don't know but crying and their breasts had forgotten milk.
They are the remnants of wars; their mornings start with wailing and
their evenings end with groan. Look at our trees; they are brassy and
coarse like the voice of our women and look at our lakes, they are dry
like their cheeks. No love here because the lips have retired, and no
beauty here because our women are faceless.
A Thirsty Bean
42
The sunset is a son of light, descending at evening with azure eyes. He
told me that the sun has long braids. He reminds me of the ancestors’
apples. If only you saw them while wrapping themselves with silk.
Yes, I am ending in my crippled dream as a thirsty bean. I am neither
an almond tree nor a warm voice so I always bend at morning with
snowy face and turn to a very cold tale.
As a thirsty bean, I’ve been looking for my face which was stolen by
wars. I am the son of war; my heart is a dry desert and my memory
was kneaded by tough dances. I am an Iraqi man; my life is postponed
and I know nothing about beauty or love. The cloth of my dreams is
short and all what I wish is seeing the waters of Euphrates without
blood and the shells walk away from the crashed ribs of Babylon. All
what I want is to live amidst the bean; the daughter of war. It is just
like me, sleeps in the field without face.
The Dark summer
The summer’s kites are beautiful and bear our dreams on their wings
but our summer always cuts their silks and leaves us with tears. Our
summer is an old dizzy portent so he knows nothing about our dry
flowers and sees our pain but doesn't send any breeze to smooth our
reddish cheeks. Unlike our primitive souls, our summer is mysterious
and dark. It has brought all the world’s smokes into our land in a
faceless night.
43
The River Face
The river and the remote flowers know the story. I don’t tell them the
secret of our south treasure, but the bean has a gross voice, and you
can hear all the news from her. He draws butterflies on our lips and
makes from our pain a colored breeze. He is warmhearted and his pulse
is always hot. From his face, the image of my soul emerges like a
dazzled flower. She is blue and sleepy and there is a white spike on her
left hand.
Al-Mehdi
I see the deer and the wolf play together, their souls are lovely as the
moon and their hearts are delicate like a river. The woman walks safely
from Cairo to Baghdad over bland grass and within flowery aura. I
look at the leader of justice; his eyes see the truth, his mouth is filled
with sapience and his heart is colored with mercifulness. He delights
the hearts of his citizens with deep happiness, sates their souls with
splendid wisdom and fills their hands with gold and diamond. At that
glory, the sun is smooth like a veil, the moon is bright as a morning
rose and the earth is rosy as a bride.
When his state shines, the grass will smile and the flowers will fly
with wings and the rivers will breathe the breezy love and the waterfall
will grin widely. The gold will color the earth and the diamond will
paint the trees. At that glory, the devil has no voice and the evil has no
aides.
When he occurs, the trees will be extremely laden and the flowers will
be exceptionally amazing. He is the lover, the Sky man and the
grandson of Abrahim. He is Al-Mahdi; his tongue doesn't know lying
and his hand doesn’t do fault. His name will be called by Gabriel and
his face will illuminate every heart. His justice words will push the
Devil’s falseness out of the souls and his kindness will plant happiness
in every house. Jesus will descend with him, so the Western hearts and
Eastern hands will be one. Under the tent of God, the earth will shine
with Al-Mahdi’s wisdom and Jesus’ kindness In that East-Western
44
state, everything is colored with happiness and the souls are totally free
from the evil’s voices.
Arab River
I heard that the rivers waters, which breathe their laughs in the springs,
will end in The Arab River. The birds which leave their eggs in the
high trees will build their nest in the garden of my grandfather and the
clouds which turn the sky dusty, will give their rain in our dessert. The
bombs which had been made in the remote land will sleep in my river’s
dreams. So I am a famous man and my river is a kind heart.
River’s Tales
The winter chants which had been made from our mumbles had a very
delicate roaring. At that time the roads is wide because we are sons of
old farmers know nothing about the river tales. In fact in "Al-Aria", my
childhood town, everything is simple even the river tales, and you
shouldn't expect that there may be fairies in our water. From that purity
we had built primitive skyscrapers, exactly as our dreams. Now you can
imagine the smell of our feet, it had left in our heart unforgettable
trances. We didn't know how our dirty feet’s could illuminate the
darkness and whispering softly in the ears of our silence? We did not
know the color of the sun at its beautiful sunset. That is to say we are
stolen people. In the same time our trees had knew everything, and this
is very strange, where my tree know everything and I don’t know
anything.
45
Magic Wind
We are from the south, where there are no leaves or flowers. Our
ancestors had planted us in a bare land, so the salty algae cover our
souls. No birds here, in the south, and all what you can hear are
delusional winds. They are not fairies, but I find every illusion on their
palms. We love our magic winds because their white crowns scatter
salty veils on our bare bodies, so we don’t need more dreams. You
know; the salty dream close any door and bury any well but I don’t
understand how these illusionary winds can play with our souls every
time.
The Colorless City
The bears are not coarse or brown but soft like rosy balloons and the
owl is not blind or ominous, but a witch and her white heart can see
the truth. They used to talk to me about the stories of the ancestors
but because of this cold city, rootless and homeless I am now, so I
decided to live in a warm nest over a tree to laugh as load as I can.
This city had slapped me with her hard hands and stolen every
beautiful thing. Because of it, I had forgotten my smile and voice. A
dumb man now I am, without color, exactly like this uncolored city. I
know nothing about the spring’ deer and I never remember my dear
trees. My soul is now in a big prison; the roads are smaller than my
feet and the wall are taller than my dreams. This city has no mirror, so
you can't see her face.
In that city, I find myself a frozen picture on a wall. I am the son of
green laughs, look at me; do you see anything except drought? My
corners are dark like the soul of this city and the wail penetrating my
breath like feet of invaders. I lean down on barefooted roads as a
strange story; nothing here but coldness. In my darkened street I can't
see but stifling loss tears my islands mercilessly. This is me; just a heap
of fringe remnants in a dark city rides on me as a blind horse. I do not
see anything but stones bleeding my feet, harsh trunks cleaving my
head and hidden hands immersing me in turbid water.
46
Blind Wind
In a very strange moment, I saw the soul of a blind wind; it was
shattered as our southern life. That blind wind knows nothing but
destruction of my doors and bear nothing but deceptive seeds. Their
colored eyes are not attractive despite their smooth whisper. They fill
my life with shivery boughs and paint my windows with cloudy tales.
The ignorant moon has no idea about her salty sorrows. When we talk
about her wishes, we should understand the deep yearning which
makes her heart jumps over the grass with rabbit. In fact I did not see
the tears of our blind wind, but my killed dream knows very well the
colors of her moaning and the cooing of her eyes’ drops. She sits at
the western bank of our river like the sun and she always narrates our
ancestors’ tales with sad voice. Lastly, I have known from my mother
that the salty taste of that wind had come from our sad stories.
The Blind City
I am a blind tree know nothing about the evening breeze and its
chants. All I know is a failing attempt to catch the ragged remnants of
this world. My leaves are pale and my dream has a faint evening sitting
at a black door without sunset. The grey birds like its delusive
whispers but when it takes its real face, there is nothing but sad
boughs.
I am from blind city where everything has no eyes even the girls. The
bridges are so blind with weak breath exactly like the eyelids of my
sick bird. In fact our bridges have no eyes and they know nothing
about the novel fashions. When I touch their wood at morning, I feel
their pain and when I hear their whispers at night, I saw their sadness.
47
Our blind bridges have endless waste because their lost eyes are so
grey, like my soul.
Violet Tales
Our sun is violet but wears a white veil and our trees are also sad but
unveil. Our tables are wide but empty and our hearts are purple but
broken. We are from the south where everything is violet even our
sons. When you immerse in our river you will meet a violet fish and
when you read my poem, you will find all the violet tales.
Here, that violet rose knows how to hug the fabled river in a moment
needs a warm touch. I will drown in yearning; I will find that train
where we met our story. She told me that the moon sleeps on the free
lids and when you know a red kiss, you will see the cloud flowers.
Nothing in my Depth but the Loss
The windows are important because my father had said that winds
are always kissing the glasses of the windows in the early morning. I
can see the souls of the winds, but the problem is situating in my
fingers where all the stories of absence reside in. In fact I am trying to
color my soul with a windy gaze but as you see nothing here; in my
depths, but the loss.
My years are so affectionate because all the trees which we had seen
in a special moment are absent. I like the absent moment and I love
the absent fragrance of my grandfather. The colors are the remnant of
a love story, and my eye is an old lover. Now sit please, don’t worry; I
am ok; I am not crazy; I just try to live without my lost love.
48
I am a lean bough of a magic dawn; no sun on my forehead and no kiss
on my neck. I know the freedom very well but I can't see the road. Yes
I am a blind bird and I should learn from the freedom kiss how to see
the life. There, on the mouths of freedom shapers, you find that violet
kisses.
Dreamy Butterflies
Our women wishes are filled with pink dreams, and their desires
dissolve on hidden windows in secret nights. Here, on the colored
boughs you can see nothing but arousing smiles and you can't hear
but stirring whispers. The hearts are so fragile, but they can see your
brilliance and they can hear your chants. There is no wings here, but
there are dreamy butterflies know nothing but love. Yes, they are
dreamy butterflies; in their hearts windy stories and on their palms
matutinal breezes.
The Blind Hotels
The streets, the cafes and the markets are human. The dresses, the
perfumes, and the bags are human. The trees, the waterfalls, and the
flowers are human. The snow, the sands, and the salt are human. But
in spite of all these human, our spiritual hotels are empty.
Our hotel is small and dark despite the wide gardens. In our hotel the
walls are so thick and the souls are so discordant. We are good in
making the walls and in someday we may see the aliens here to buy
walls from us. Our walls are perfect and unbelievable; they prevent
any love or any warm hands.
There are no stairs in our small hotel because our crippling. When he
whispered to me, I saw the sofa stole his coat, but you know I can't
say anything, because of the pure blood of the sofa. Now, I think you
49
can imagine the size of the windows in our small hotel. Yes, they are
smaller than my eyes, and because of that, the people call our hotel
"The Blind Hotel".
Crying
There is no waterfall in Iraq and all what can I see is the bitter desert.
Our dresses are black and our women are shadows of crying. I am a
man without figure and like the birds; my home is a simple nest under
unmerciful sun. Look at my skin, it is dry and look at my eyes; they
are illusionary. My morning is a painful story and my evening is a sad
memory. Nothing here but the crying; yes In Iraq everything is
destroyed even the beautiful women.
Gray Buterflies
The silence is the journey of my sleepy soul. It doesn’t know anything
but whisper. Look at it; it stands there like a desert’s bird where salty
sands color its face. Its yellow perfume fills our shadowed dreams.
Look at my deep corners; they migrate toward remote springs where
the gray silence’s butterflies narrate my crazy motionlessness.
50
The Spring’s Lover
The spring glisters like a girl, and when its water waking up, it mixes
its coffee with all blue songs. I am a springs’lover, and I can’t hide my
ardors in the yearning moments. What can I do if the windows of my
depth can’t see but charming breeze?
I Love the Writers
I love the writers because my mother said that they descend from a
magic paradise and hidden demons live in their souls. The legend says
that the writers awake early to grasp the dreams and before the white
dogs, they knock the snow’s doors to tell us the winter’s stories. The
snowy mountains are in deep love with the hot mantles of the writers
and the flying horses that emerge from their fingers have changed the
gloomy colors. I have seen the writers’souls jump delightedly over the
grass with the deer and from their smooth pens, the birds take their
chants. You may feel the soft breeze plays with their eyes and you may
sense their warm beats when they disappear in the river’s smiles.
A Bloody lake
My friend told me that there is a beautiful lake near his home. At that
moment I remembered our lake. Yes in Iraq there is a lake, but it has
been filled with blood. Its eyes are sharp and her sound is sad like my
heart. When I see it, I remember our bare children and all weeping
mothers. Yes we live in a sad land where you can't find any dream just
a bloody lake.
A Bitter Soul
My grandfather said; there is nothing like a cold brook where the
waterish breeze has colored the smooth butterflies. I am a man from
the south where the streams covers our fields but I can't remember
anyone. My grandfather was a farmer from south and he clove its
brooks. He was keeping the tales of the green land in his chest as a
51
treasure but his grandson know nothing about the southern tales and
see nothing but a dry life so you are seeing my bitter soul and you feel
my thirsty heart.
He Who Saw Light
I love the mud, because it was a memory of your great hands. I feel so
pride when I see flights of arrivers sit at your door seeking some nectar
from you big secrets.
Yes, I know, you look at us - the primitive- with a smile because you
are Sin Liqui who saw everything. Here, we are talking about the
infinity but you had kneaded it between your fingers and illuminated
its dark cities by a leafy light. I see you on brassy Uruk’s porches
52
looking at us with a cup of tea glitters like a Babylonian angel who
plays in the wilderness with Enkidu’s deer.
Yes, your hands defeated the aging and death, because you saw the
secrets. O Sin Leqi Unninni, you look at us and smile, because you are
(who saw the light). when you found a sound, your journey became a
river, and when you swathe the light, my soul became a flower, and
when you met the sun, I found the hope. I am a flower from the sand’s
cities suffers from love as a shepherd had been drowning in the gulf. I
am standing in that corner, enumerating the yearning’s breaths. In one
day I had bravely crossed the silence by a boat of light. I had looked at
the faces of fields when they were chanting there lovely songs. At that
time, the lights’ souls held my hand and gifted me their precious
treasure. They fired my ribs with unforgotten flap and stroked my head
with brassy stones.
PALE MAN
Our sky has inherited the worry clouds from the grey ancestors. It was
waiting migrant holidays but our souls had nothing but gloomy faces.
Our sky is a tear of a crying land where the sad rivers had written their
stories. Here, you can’t see but dry flowers and in our hidden corners,
you will find a pale moon with coarse cheeks. Look at me; I am the son
of pale moon, my hand is very cold and my lip is fissured as a widow’s
heart.
I am a man made from wood and I don’t know anything about lying
and I don’t like these pale lights; what the lying voices brought to my
town. May I stand in the heart of this waterfall? I mean away from you
pale lightness.
I am a lifeless tree with colorless tales. I am a pale man can’t live
with dauntless boat. Here, in my destroyed land, there is no glory nor
53
poems and all what can you see is a pale death. Our houses are filled
with black bitterness and our grass is not green. Our girls are fields
of sadness and our streets are mirrors of wars. Yes, we are sons of
blind death but there are no fault on our hand and no any blood on
our coats.
Gray Bird
I have a salty bird who had not tried to fly because he has no wings
since his birth. His color was gray in the black era because of his
faked praise. I am not a revolutionary man and I always try to walk
beside the wall but my bird has an ardent soul and he has quickly
changed his color to grasp any leftovers.
The Silent Tree
These birds love the silent tree and like to perch on that bough. You
know; the love is unexplained thing but we know it very well. From
54
that lovely bough, the leaves and feathers had fallen with a
quarrelsome smile. This was a heavy thing for that tired tree which is
filled with sad stories. She always descends to clean the ground from
the frivolous feathers. Her slim fingers drown butterflies and her
broken heart chants absent songs. I saw her kissing water like my voice
which I had forgotten at my postponed beginning. I am a wild man
knows the animals' sounds but not pure like them. The bears are neither
rough nor brown and the owl is sliver and sees the truth. At that glory,
I was smiling in the morning and for many times I was sitting at a lake
I didn't remember its name. Now I am rootless; my small hut had lost
its threads and my mantle had colored with forgetfulness. This sharp
city had slapped my cheeks mercilessly and immersed oblivion in my
memory. I have been crying bitterly since that time where I had saw
her. I am crying for my precious trees. I had forgotten my color and
my voice. Now I am very sad and colorless and never remember the
smiles of my missing trees.
I am a yellow tree with cold whispers. As a thirsty spike, I am waiting
crippled dreams. My streets had been stolen and my brooks know
nothing but pallor. In April, the children fly lovely kites while my birds
disappear in the mud with motionless souls. Oh my days, here is a
wound, please listen to it.
The Glorious Friday
I love that fragrance which I knew very well and I felt in the glorious
Friday in that luminous corner of sky. I love his words when he says"
this is the decent Almehdi who will fill the towns with wisdom”. I see
his turban with its uncurled end and see his horse; it's neat and agleam
as a gem. The lands will cognize his forgivingness, touch his
mercifulness and smell his vestal fragrance. Jesus will descend with
him to show the globe shining dawn and guide the souls to the realness.
His sword is decisive but merciful and his words are strident but
egalitarian.
55
ILLUSION
My smile does not eat her breakfast and my eyes became brilliant
because of their illusion. Now, I can see a faint light with silver skin
like the moon. I see a braves’ ship swimming under my destroyed roof
and travels through the infinity as a shadow. It is flying in my wide
illusion as a bird. Yes, I am here, with this motionless brain and useless
body, an eastern man drowning in the illusions.
I am a physician and I know very well the burning taste of the strange
moments of illusion. They are like the gray papers which had been
disappeared in salt seas without pain. Because of the hidden voice of
that watching soul, all what can I see are our dry leaves which have
colored our empty eyes. Now, you should know that I am in a thirsty
time and my heart is faint like a dry illusion.
In fact, I find the pleasure to color the sun’s eyelashes with a magic
dreams. I like coffee because my skin is brown and coffee brings the
pictures of my ancestors. Yes, my brown skin has made from the coffee
illusion but my heart is a city of sadness. Here, in Iraq, the birds are
made from illusions and the trees are just stories of tears. No, there are
no birds in Iraq and what I have talked about is just an illusion because
of our sorcery coffee.
56
The Cloud Tales
It is silvery, just like my dream, this winter, which I began to feel
vigorously. His rain colors my soul and plants in my deep unforgettable
tales.
When I learned its laughs, the moon lights had slept in my lids, and
when I groped the face of a strange voice, the shine of the magic vehicles
colored my dark nights. With all this glory, the cloud showed me her
hearts, and planted their tales deeply in my soul. I feel them vigorously,
and I remember very well their fragrance. How you can imagine it? How
we can count the cloud tales?
Do you hear its tale? She touches my heart with a whisper from a
remote love. All the soft days take their colors from her water, and our
warm corners drown in her tales with deep smiles. Her wet dreams fill
our internal with the freedom’s breaths, and on her hands you can see
a beautiful paint, but our hearts are so young to understand her glances.
Remote Perfume
She showed me the soul of pink flowers and the hidden colors of life,
so the angels who know everything add nothing and the sorcerers who
do everything do nothing. From her perfume, the world takes his
meaning and the candles have no souls in the absence of her soft hand.
You can’t feel the days’pulses without her perfume and the riverbanks’
flowers can’t find their chants but in her eyes. In fact I can't continue
57
to live in this empty desert because my horses smell her remote
perfume. This remote perfume has reached me last days where I was
driving my thought towards surrealistic free world. Believe me, I know
that it has inspirational windows and its sky has awesome colors, but
what can I do, if all my doors were stolen and all my eyes were closed
by unknown?
58

More Related Content

More from أنور غني الموسوي

ملامح المدرسة التسقيطية.التسقيط والارهاب الفكري والقتل المعنوي
ملامح المدرسة التسقيطية.التسقيط والارهاب الفكري والقتل المعنويملامح المدرسة التسقيطية.التسقيط والارهاب الفكري والقتل المعنوي
ملامح المدرسة التسقيطية.التسقيط والارهاب الفكري والقتل المعنوي
أنور غني الموسوي
 
مختصر علم احكام القرآن فقه القرآن وفق منهج العرض
مختصر علم احكام القرآن فقه القرآن وفق منهج العرضمختصر علم احكام القرآن فقه القرآن وفق منهج العرض
مختصر علم احكام القرآن فقه القرآن وفق منهج العرض
أنور غني الموسوي
 
تيسير الشرائع الاسلامية من القرآن والسنة النسخة الثانية 14
تيسير الشرائع الاسلامية من القرآن والسنة النسخة الثانية 14تيسير الشرائع الاسلامية من القرآن والسنة النسخة الثانية 14
تيسير الشرائع الاسلامية من القرآن والسنة النسخة الثانية 14
أنور غني الموسوي
 
تيسير العقائد الاسلامية المستفادة من القرآن والسنة
تيسير العقائد الاسلامية المستفادة من القرآن والسنةتيسير العقائد الاسلامية المستفادة من القرآن والسنة
تيسير العقائد الاسلامية المستفادة من القرآن والسنة
أنور غني الموسوي
 
تيسير السنة الاحاديث المصدقة النسخة الثانية
تيسير السنة الاحاديث المصدقة النسخة الثانيةتيسير السنة الاحاديث المصدقة النسخة الثانية
تيسير السنة الاحاديث المصدقة النسخة الثانية
أنور غني الموسوي
 
تيسير القرآن النسخة الثانية التفسير المدرج
تيسير القرآن  النسخة الثانية  التفسير المدرجتيسير القرآن  النسخة الثانية  التفسير المدرج
تيسير القرآن النسخة الثانية التفسير المدرج
أنور غني الموسوي
 
قانون الحجة الشرعية تطبيقات الفقه الكمي
قانون الحجة الشرعية  تطبيقات الفقه الكميقانون الحجة الشرعية  تطبيقات الفقه الكمي
قانون الحجة الشرعية تطبيقات الفقه الكمي
أنور غني الموسوي
 
الموسوعة الشرائعية.pdf
الموسوعة الشرائعية.pdfالموسوعة الشرائعية.pdf
الموسوعة الشرائعية.pdf
أنور غني الموسوي
 
الموسوعة العقائدية.pdf
الموسوعة العقائدية.pdfالموسوعة العقائدية.pdf
الموسوعة العقائدية.pdf
أنور غني الموسوي
 
الموسوعة الحديثية.pdf
الموسوعة الحديثية.pdfالموسوعة الحديثية.pdf
الموسوعة الحديثية.pdf
أنور غني الموسوي
 
الموسوعة القرآنية.pdf
الموسوعة القرآنية.pdfالموسوعة القرآنية.pdf
الموسوعة القرآنية.pdf
أنور غني الموسوي
 
الموسوعة الأدبية.pdf
الموسوعة الأدبية.pdfالموسوعة الأدبية.pdf
الموسوعة الأدبية.pdf
أنور غني الموسوي
 
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج 8.pdf
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج 8.pdfأصول وفروع الشريعة ج 8.pdf
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج 8.pdf
أنور غني الموسوي
 
اصول وفروع الشريعة ج7.pdf
اصول وفروع الشريعة ج7.pdfاصول وفروع الشريعة ج7.pdf
اصول وفروع الشريعة ج7.pdf
أنور غني الموسوي
 
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج 6.pdf
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج 6.pdfأصول وفروع الشريعة ج 6.pdf
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج 6.pdf
أنور غني الموسوي
 
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج 5.pdf
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج 5.pdfأصول وفروع الشريعة ج 5.pdf
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج 5.pdf
أنور غني الموسوي
 
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج4.pdf
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج4.pdfأصول وفروع الشريعة ج4.pdf
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج4.pdf
أنور غني الموسوي
 
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج3.pdf
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج3.pdfأصول وفروع الشريعة ج3.pdf
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج3.pdf
أنور غني الموسوي
 
اصول وفروع الشريعة ج2.pdf
اصول وفروع الشريعة ج2.pdfاصول وفروع الشريعة ج2.pdf
اصول وفروع الشريعة ج2.pdf
أنور غني الموسوي
 

More from أنور غني الموسوي (20)

ملامح المدرسة التسقيطية.التسقيط والارهاب الفكري والقتل المعنوي
ملامح المدرسة التسقيطية.التسقيط والارهاب الفكري والقتل المعنويملامح المدرسة التسقيطية.التسقيط والارهاب الفكري والقتل المعنوي
ملامح المدرسة التسقيطية.التسقيط والارهاب الفكري والقتل المعنوي
 
مختصر علم احكام القرآن فقه القرآن وفق منهج العرض
مختصر علم احكام القرآن فقه القرآن وفق منهج العرضمختصر علم احكام القرآن فقه القرآن وفق منهج العرض
مختصر علم احكام القرآن فقه القرآن وفق منهج العرض
 
تيسير الشرائع الاسلامية من القرآن والسنة النسخة الثانية 14
تيسير الشرائع الاسلامية من القرآن والسنة النسخة الثانية 14تيسير الشرائع الاسلامية من القرآن والسنة النسخة الثانية 14
تيسير الشرائع الاسلامية من القرآن والسنة النسخة الثانية 14
 
تيسير العقائد الاسلامية المستفادة من القرآن والسنة
تيسير العقائد الاسلامية المستفادة من القرآن والسنةتيسير العقائد الاسلامية المستفادة من القرآن والسنة
تيسير العقائد الاسلامية المستفادة من القرآن والسنة
 
تيسير السنة الاحاديث المصدقة النسخة الثانية
تيسير السنة الاحاديث المصدقة النسخة الثانيةتيسير السنة الاحاديث المصدقة النسخة الثانية
تيسير السنة الاحاديث المصدقة النسخة الثانية
 
تيسير القرآن النسخة الثانية التفسير المدرج
تيسير القرآن  النسخة الثانية  التفسير المدرجتيسير القرآن  النسخة الثانية  التفسير المدرج
تيسير القرآن النسخة الثانية التفسير المدرج
 
قانون الحجة الشرعية تطبيقات الفقه الكمي
قانون الحجة الشرعية  تطبيقات الفقه الكميقانون الحجة الشرعية  تطبيقات الفقه الكمي
قانون الحجة الشرعية تطبيقات الفقه الكمي
 
الموسوعة العلمية.pdf
الموسوعة العلمية.pdfالموسوعة العلمية.pdf
الموسوعة العلمية.pdf
 
الموسوعة الشرائعية.pdf
الموسوعة الشرائعية.pdfالموسوعة الشرائعية.pdf
الموسوعة الشرائعية.pdf
 
الموسوعة العقائدية.pdf
الموسوعة العقائدية.pdfالموسوعة العقائدية.pdf
الموسوعة العقائدية.pdf
 
الموسوعة الحديثية.pdf
الموسوعة الحديثية.pdfالموسوعة الحديثية.pdf
الموسوعة الحديثية.pdf
 
الموسوعة القرآنية.pdf
الموسوعة القرآنية.pdfالموسوعة القرآنية.pdf
الموسوعة القرآنية.pdf
 
الموسوعة الأدبية.pdf
الموسوعة الأدبية.pdfالموسوعة الأدبية.pdf
الموسوعة الأدبية.pdf
 
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج 8.pdf
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج 8.pdfأصول وفروع الشريعة ج 8.pdf
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج 8.pdf
 
اصول وفروع الشريعة ج7.pdf
اصول وفروع الشريعة ج7.pdfاصول وفروع الشريعة ج7.pdf
اصول وفروع الشريعة ج7.pdf
 
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج 6.pdf
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج 6.pdfأصول وفروع الشريعة ج 6.pdf
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج 6.pdf
 
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج 5.pdf
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج 5.pdfأصول وفروع الشريعة ج 5.pdf
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج 5.pdf
 
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج4.pdf
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج4.pdfأصول وفروع الشريعة ج4.pdf
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج4.pdf
 
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج3.pdf
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج3.pdfأصول وفروع الشريعة ج3.pdf
أصول وفروع الشريعة ج3.pdf
 
اصول وفروع الشريعة ج2.pdf
اصول وفروع الشريعة ج2.pdfاصول وفروع الشريعة ج2.pdf
اصول وفروع الشريعة ج2.pdf
 

Recently uploaded

Juneteenth Freedom Day 2024 David Douglas School District
Juneteenth Freedom Day 2024 David Douglas School DistrictJuneteenth Freedom Day 2024 David Douglas School District
Juneteenth Freedom Day 2024 David Douglas School District
David Douglas School District
 
Beyond Degrees - Empowering the Workforce in the Context of Skills-First.pptx
Beyond Degrees - Empowering the Workforce in the Context of Skills-First.pptxBeyond Degrees - Empowering the Workforce in the Context of Skills-First.pptx
Beyond Degrees - Empowering the Workforce in the Context of Skills-First.pptx
EduSkills OECD
 
Elevate Your Nonprofit's Online Presence_ A Guide to Effective SEO Strategies...
Elevate Your Nonprofit's Online Presence_ A Guide to Effective SEO Strategies...Elevate Your Nonprofit's Online Presence_ A Guide to Effective SEO Strategies...
Elevate Your Nonprofit's Online Presence_ A Guide to Effective SEO Strategies...
TechSoup
 
Chapter wise All Notes of First year Basic Civil Engineering.pptx
Chapter wise All Notes of First year Basic Civil Engineering.pptxChapter wise All Notes of First year Basic Civil Engineering.pptx
Chapter wise All Notes of First year Basic Civil Engineering.pptx
Denish Jangid
 
BÀI TẬP DẠY THÊM TIẾNG ANH LỚP 7 CẢ NĂM FRIENDS PLUS SÁCH CHÂN TRỜI SÁNG TẠO ...
BÀI TẬP DẠY THÊM TIẾNG ANH LỚP 7 CẢ NĂM FRIENDS PLUS SÁCH CHÂN TRỜI SÁNG TẠO ...BÀI TẬP DẠY THÊM TIẾNG ANH LỚP 7 CẢ NĂM FRIENDS PLUS SÁCH CHÂN TRỜI SÁNG TẠO ...
BÀI TẬP DẠY THÊM TIẾNG ANH LỚP 7 CẢ NĂM FRIENDS PLUS SÁCH CHÂN TRỜI SÁNG TẠO ...
Nguyen Thanh Tu Collection
 
How to deliver Powerpoint Presentations.pptx
How to deliver Powerpoint  Presentations.pptxHow to deliver Powerpoint  Presentations.pptx
How to deliver Powerpoint Presentations.pptx
HajraNaeem15
 
Wound healing PPT
Wound healing PPTWound healing PPT
Wound healing PPT
Jyoti Chand
 
What is Digital Literacy? A guest blog from Andy McLaughlin, University of Ab...
What is Digital Literacy? A guest blog from Andy McLaughlin, University of Ab...What is Digital Literacy? A guest blog from Andy McLaughlin, University of Ab...
What is Digital Literacy? A guest blog from Andy McLaughlin, University of Ab...
GeorgeMilliken2
 
How Barcodes Can Be Leveraged Within Odoo 17
How Barcodes Can Be Leveraged Within Odoo 17How Barcodes Can Be Leveraged Within Odoo 17
How Barcodes Can Be Leveraged Within Odoo 17
Celine George
 
Electric Fetus - Record Store Scavenger Hunt
Electric Fetus - Record Store Scavenger HuntElectric Fetus - Record Store Scavenger Hunt
Electric Fetus - Record Store Scavenger Hunt
RamseyBerglund
 
Pharmaceutics Pharmaceuticals best of brub
Pharmaceutics Pharmaceuticals best of brubPharmaceutics Pharmaceuticals best of brub
Pharmaceutics Pharmaceuticals best of brub
danielkiash986
 
MDP on air pollution of class 8 year 2024-2025
MDP on air pollution of class 8 year 2024-2025MDP on air pollution of class 8 year 2024-2025
MDP on air pollution of class 8 year 2024-2025
khuleseema60
 
REASIGNACION 2024 UGEL CHUPACA 2024 UGEL CHUPACA.pdf
REASIGNACION 2024 UGEL CHUPACA 2024 UGEL CHUPACA.pdfREASIGNACION 2024 UGEL CHUPACA 2024 UGEL CHUPACA.pdf
REASIGNACION 2024 UGEL CHUPACA 2024 UGEL CHUPACA.pdf
giancarloi8888
 
Andreas Schleicher presents PISA 2022 Volume III - Creative Thinking - 18 Jun...
Andreas Schleicher presents PISA 2022 Volume III - Creative Thinking - 18 Jun...Andreas Schleicher presents PISA 2022 Volume III - Creative Thinking - 18 Jun...
Andreas Schleicher presents PISA 2022 Volume III - Creative Thinking - 18 Jun...
EduSkills OECD
 
Bonku-Babus-Friend by Sathyajith Ray (9)
Bonku-Babus-Friend by Sathyajith Ray  (9)Bonku-Babus-Friend by Sathyajith Ray  (9)
Bonku-Babus-Friend by Sathyajith Ray (9)
nitinpv4ai
 
Bossa N’ Roll Records by Ismael Vazquez.
Bossa N’ Roll Records by Ismael Vazquez.Bossa N’ Roll Records by Ismael Vazquez.
Bossa N’ Roll Records by Ismael Vazquez.
IsmaelVazquez38
 
A Visual Guide to 1 Samuel | A Tale of Two Hearts
A Visual Guide to 1 Samuel | A Tale of Two HeartsA Visual Guide to 1 Samuel | A Tale of Two Hearts
A Visual Guide to 1 Samuel | A Tale of Two Hearts
Steve Thomason
 
Educational Technology in the Health Sciences
Educational Technology in the Health SciencesEducational Technology in the Health Sciences
Educational Technology in the Health Sciences
Iris Thiele Isip-Tan
 
Traditional Musical Instruments of Arunachal Pradesh and Uttar Pradesh - RAYH...
Traditional Musical Instruments of Arunachal Pradesh and Uttar Pradesh - RAYH...Traditional Musical Instruments of Arunachal Pradesh and Uttar Pradesh - RAYH...
Traditional Musical Instruments of Arunachal Pradesh and Uttar Pradesh - RAYH...
imrankhan141184
 
The basics of sentences session 7pptx.pptx
The basics of sentences session 7pptx.pptxThe basics of sentences session 7pptx.pptx
The basics of sentences session 7pptx.pptx
heathfieldcps1
 

Recently uploaded (20)

Juneteenth Freedom Day 2024 David Douglas School District
Juneteenth Freedom Day 2024 David Douglas School DistrictJuneteenth Freedom Day 2024 David Douglas School District
Juneteenth Freedom Day 2024 David Douglas School District
 
Beyond Degrees - Empowering the Workforce in the Context of Skills-First.pptx
Beyond Degrees - Empowering the Workforce in the Context of Skills-First.pptxBeyond Degrees - Empowering the Workforce in the Context of Skills-First.pptx
Beyond Degrees - Empowering the Workforce in the Context of Skills-First.pptx
 
Elevate Your Nonprofit's Online Presence_ A Guide to Effective SEO Strategies...
Elevate Your Nonprofit's Online Presence_ A Guide to Effective SEO Strategies...Elevate Your Nonprofit's Online Presence_ A Guide to Effective SEO Strategies...
Elevate Your Nonprofit's Online Presence_ A Guide to Effective SEO Strategies...
 
Chapter wise All Notes of First year Basic Civil Engineering.pptx
Chapter wise All Notes of First year Basic Civil Engineering.pptxChapter wise All Notes of First year Basic Civil Engineering.pptx
Chapter wise All Notes of First year Basic Civil Engineering.pptx
 
BÀI TẬP DẠY THÊM TIẾNG ANH LỚP 7 CẢ NĂM FRIENDS PLUS SÁCH CHÂN TRỜI SÁNG TẠO ...
BÀI TẬP DẠY THÊM TIẾNG ANH LỚP 7 CẢ NĂM FRIENDS PLUS SÁCH CHÂN TRỜI SÁNG TẠO ...BÀI TẬP DẠY THÊM TIẾNG ANH LỚP 7 CẢ NĂM FRIENDS PLUS SÁCH CHÂN TRỜI SÁNG TẠO ...
BÀI TẬP DẠY THÊM TIẾNG ANH LỚP 7 CẢ NĂM FRIENDS PLUS SÁCH CHÂN TRỜI SÁNG TẠO ...
 
How to deliver Powerpoint Presentations.pptx
How to deliver Powerpoint  Presentations.pptxHow to deliver Powerpoint  Presentations.pptx
How to deliver Powerpoint Presentations.pptx
 
Wound healing PPT
Wound healing PPTWound healing PPT
Wound healing PPT
 
What is Digital Literacy? A guest blog from Andy McLaughlin, University of Ab...
What is Digital Literacy? A guest blog from Andy McLaughlin, University of Ab...What is Digital Literacy? A guest blog from Andy McLaughlin, University of Ab...
What is Digital Literacy? A guest blog from Andy McLaughlin, University of Ab...
 
How Barcodes Can Be Leveraged Within Odoo 17
How Barcodes Can Be Leveraged Within Odoo 17How Barcodes Can Be Leveraged Within Odoo 17
How Barcodes Can Be Leveraged Within Odoo 17
 
Electric Fetus - Record Store Scavenger Hunt
Electric Fetus - Record Store Scavenger HuntElectric Fetus - Record Store Scavenger Hunt
Electric Fetus - Record Store Scavenger Hunt
 
Pharmaceutics Pharmaceuticals best of brub
Pharmaceutics Pharmaceuticals best of brubPharmaceutics Pharmaceuticals best of brub
Pharmaceutics Pharmaceuticals best of brub
 
MDP on air pollution of class 8 year 2024-2025
MDP on air pollution of class 8 year 2024-2025MDP on air pollution of class 8 year 2024-2025
MDP on air pollution of class 8 year 2024-2025
 
REASIGNACION 2024 UGEL CHUPACA 2024 UGEL CHUPACA.pdf
REASIGNACION 2024 UGEL CHUPACA 2024 UGEL CHUPACA.pdfREASIGNACION 2024 UGEL CHUPACA 2024 UGEL CHUPACA.pdf
REASIGNACION 2024 UGEL CHUPACA 2024 UGEL CHUPACA.pdf
 
Andreas Schleicher presents PISA 2022 Volume III - Creative Thinking - 18 Jun...
Andreas Schleicher presents PISA 2022 Volume III - Creative Thinking - 18 Jun...Andreas Schleicher presents PISA 2022 Volume III - Creative Thinking - 18 Jun...
Andreas Schleicher presents PISA 2022 Volume III - Creative Thinking - 18 Jun...
 
Bonku-Babus-Friend by Sathyajith Ray (9)
Bonku-Babus-Friend by Sathyajith Ray  (9)Bonku-Babus-Friend by Sathyajith Ray  (9)
Bonku-Babus-Friend by Sathyajith Ray (9)
 
Bossa N’ Roll Records by Ismael Vazquez.
Bossa N’ Roll Records by Ismael Vazquez.Bossa N’ Roll Records by Ismael Vazquez.
Bossa N’ Roll Records by Ismael Vazquez.
 
A Visual Guide to 1 Samuel | A Tale of Two Hearts
A Visual Guide to 1 Samuel | A Tale of Two HeartsA Visual Guide to 1 Samuel | A Tale of Two Hearts
A Visual Guide to 1 Samuel | A Tale of Two Hearts
 
Educational Technology in the Health Sciences
Educational Technology in the Health SciencesEducational Technology in the Health Sciences
Educational Technology in the Health Sciences
 
Traditional Musical Instruments of Arunachal Pradesh and Uttar Pradesh - RAYH...
Traditional Musical Instruments of Arunachal Pradesh and Uttar Pradesh - RAYH...Traditional Musical Instruments of Arunachal Pradesh and Uttar Pradesh - RAYH...
Traditional Musical Instruments of Arunachal Pradesh and Uttar Pradesh - RAYH...
 
The basics of sentences session 7pptx.pptx
The basics of sentences session 7pptx.pptxThe basics of sentences session 7pptx.pptx
The basics of sentences session 7pptx.pptx
 

A FARMERS CHANTS.pdf

  • 1. 1
  • 2. 2
  • 3. 3 A FARMER’S CHANTS Selected Prose Poems ANWER GHANI
  • 4. 4 A FARMER’S CHANTS Selected Prose Poems ANWER GHANI Second Edition Arcs Publishing House Iraq
  • 5. 5 Contents Contents........................................................................................................5 Preface ..........................................................................................................8 The author..................................................................................................10 Colored Hearts .........................................................................................11 The Old Castle...........................................................................................12 The Faint Light..........................................................................................12 Silvery Chants............................................................................................13 A Farmer from the South..........................................................................13 Dead Dreams..............................................................................................14 Simple Man ................................................................................................15 Rainy Wishes..............................................................................................16 BIRDS .........................................................................................................16 The Gypsy Girl ..........................................................................................17 COLD PASSION .......................................................................................18 RIVERIES..................................................................................................19 FENCES .....................................................................................................19 Sad Shadow................................................................................................20 A Dry Breeze ..............................................................................................21 Sandy Man .................................................................................................22 Southern Daughters ..................................................................................22 Pink Wishes ..............................................................................................23 THE SOUL OF LIGHT ............................................................................24 Windy Moments.........................................................................................25 Whispers.....................................................................................................25 Grandmother’s Tales.................................................................................26 Red Winter.................................................................................................26
  • 6. 6 Valentine’s Birds........................................................................................27 A Magic Veil ...............................................................................................27 Colored Evening ........................................................................................28 Red Mantle.................................................................................................28 The Blind Man...........................................................................................29 SECRETS...................................................................................................30 Bizarre Souls..............................................................................................31 The Strange City........................................................................................31 A Strange holiday ......................................................................................31 The Door of Freedom ..............................................................................32 A Grey Winter .............................................................................................32 Warm Muteness.........................................................................................33 I Can't Die as Soldier ................................................................................33 Free Bird ....................................................................................................34 Salty Remnants..........................................................................................34 Our Earth...................................................................................................35 The Rocky Flowers....................................................................................37 MIRRORS..................................................................................................37 Old Farmer ................................................................................................38 The Bare Land...........................................................................................39 The Pain Land ...........................................................................................39 The Glamorous Gardens...........................................................................39 Summer is not beautiful............................................................................40 Our Crazy Summer...................................................................................40 The Faceless Land .....................................................................................41 A Thirsty Bean..........................................................................................41 The Dark summer .....................................................................................42 The River Face...........................................................................................43
  • 7. 7 Al-Mehdi.....................................................................................................43 Arab River..................................................................................................44 River’s Tales...............................................................................................44 Magic Wind ...............................................................................................45 The Colorless City ....................................................................................45 Blind Wind ................................................................................................46 The Blind City...........................................................................................46 Violet Tales .................................................................................................47 Nothing in my Depth but the Loss ........................................................47 Dreamy Butterflies.....................................................................................48 The Blind Hotels........................................................................................48 Crying.........................................................................................................49 Gray Buterflies ..........................................................................................49 The Spring’s Lover....................................................................................50 I Love the Writers......................................................................................50 A Bloody lake .............................................................................................50 A Bitter Soul...............................................................................................50 He Who Saw Light.....................................................................................51 Gray Bird ...................................................................................................53 The Silent Tree...........................................................................................53 The Glorious Friday..................................................................................54 ILLUSION .................................................................................................55 The Cloud Tales .........................................................................................56 Remote Perfume ........................................................................................56
  • 8. 8 Preface The realistic imagination and the narrative imagery are the exact explanation of the prose poems of “Farmer’s Chants”. Poetry is a mirror and the text is the vehicle so the poetic text in its essential existence is a big mirror. When we use prose to bring poetry, in fact we make another mirror and when we narrate our lyricism, this is an additional mirror. So narrative prose poetry is a very complex system of mirrors and in every poetic moment, there is a mirror. "Farmer’s Chants" is a narrative lyric writing with superficial narrative structure and a deep lyricism. Everything tries to present in a full transfiguration state. Poetry as anything also tries to present in a full transfiguration. Freedom is essential for poetry and its full revelation. In the world of prose poetry, we find the anti-narrative narrative writing. For me the prose poem is a poetic text has been written in one block, horizontal shape and depends the anti-narrative narrative writing and abstract expressionistic disclosure. In Literature, there are poetry, prose and in the middle, prose poetry according to the characters of the superficial and deep structures of the speaking. Every speaking or its writing has a superficial structure which is the first construction and the understanding level in the hearing or reading process, and a deep structure which is the analytic and semantic level in this system. While poetry characterized by rhythmic superficial and deep structures, the prose in contrary to this has characterized by unrhythmic superficial and deep structures. But in the prose poetry we find the unrhythmic superficial structure and the rhythmic deep one, and this is the cause of hybridization in the prose poetry. So the prose poetry is a hybrid of prose and poetry and the rhythmic and unrhythmic writing. The prose poetry can be produced with a narrative or lyric manner. If the style is lyric in both superficial and deep layers, there will be the lyric prose poetry, while if the style was narrative in both
  • 9. 9 superficial and deep layers; there will be the narrative prose poetry. But we can find the superficial narrative structure with the deep lyric structure. In this case there will be the hybrid of Narrato-lyric prose poetry, and this the second hybrid inside the first hybrid of prose- poetry. So in the narratolyric prose poetry as Farmer’s Chants poetry is a hybrid inside a hybrid. From the themic point, the poems have been written between 2016-2018 and the corner stone in their themes are tow thing; the first the affect of the wars on the human souls and the second; the glorification of simple life. So the “Farmer’s Chants” is the imaginary narrative of war’s sadness and realistic glorification of simplicity.
  • 10. 10 The author Anwer Ghani, is an Iraqi award winner poet. He was born in 1973 in Hilla. He is a consultant nephrologist and the religious scholar is the author of more than seventy books, most of them in Arabic and the English books are eleven. His name has appeared in more than thirty magazines and more than ten anthologies in USA and UK. He received the achievement certificate from Stratfor University; India branch in 2017, and nominated as best poet in the world by World Nations Writers Union in 2017 and the Rock Pebbles Award in 2019. Anwer’s poetry characterized by the realistic imagination and narrative imaginariness and concentrates on the sadness of wars and glorification of simple life.
  • 11. 11 Colored Hearts The hearts of birds are so hidden so I can't see them very well. Sometimes I decide to open my sorcerous woody box to see the exact color of these runaway hearts. They are very antique and when you want to overturn their leaves you will smell the perfumes of the old southern adventures. No moon can sit in the corners of these colored hearts because their brilliant rays will blind the daring eyes of the sun. No clear roads in the depth, just wide space its infinite moments amaze you heart. I feel it; this amazement penetrating us as an old tale. On its hand we find all the colored souls which put on our lips’ eternal kisses. Their hands rain astonishment over our heads and their smiles plant the colored roses in our corners. Please touch them softly; they are as delicate as a dream of a shy girl. When we saw these colored shadows, their whispers penetrate us very fast, and when we smell the fragrance of their revelations, the sun slept in our dreams as a blue butterfly. In a matchless moment; an absent moment, all the warm letters and the deep ecstasies dissolve in us as sugar; that is when we touched these shadows and heard their colored wishes. Pale Land This is what I see, what I feel and what my moments talk with. I am from here; from this earth; the title of pallor. No moon here and no lovers; nothing here just pale tears. I will go deeply in the pain’s tales. I will hide from the life eyes because I am just a pale remnant. Please touch me but touch me smoothly because I am a pale remnant. My mouth is full with absence and my heart is filled with illusion. Please touch me; I want to feel myself and to know that I am a pale soul; I mean a cheap soul. Here in my land everything is pale and liking to hide even me. Here, in my land; the land of pale tears, everything is sad and pale even the sun. The blood colors our brooks with its redness but it lets our faces very pale. I am from the pale land where you can’t see colored flowers and can’t hear melodic birds. Look at our boys; they are pale and look at our girls; they are pale. The trees here are pale, the rivers are pale and the hearts are pale. Our
  • 12. 12 lips are pale, our hands are pale and our eyes are pale. In fact, we are just pale remnants. The Old Castle We have an old castle we inherited from our ancestors. Its mantle is grey, and its rivers are very short. They had made its legs from the clipped bamboo and its head from the seething tales but when you open its bone you will find just timeworn paper, and when we try to kiss its mouth there is nothing but illusions. Yes, I know that you have high castles I need very potent eyes to see their middle ornaments but their trees know very well that the lovely wells are thirsty and their pale leaves fall on my head with the sad stories. Yes, I know that I have a very old castle vaporizing every night with smooth winds, but my grandfather said that those wind are coming from the high castle. Yes, our hands are so coarse, and our trees are so brown but there is nothing in our hearts but breezy tales. Our eyes can see the sunset with its amazing colors when it sleeps near our castle. You should take a step to see our magic afternoons and to hear the very melodic chants of our birds. Despite our sad rivers, we don't attempt to plant tears in your fields and despite our love for your cream, we didn’t try to eat your creamy castles. The Faint Light When my eyes see that faint light, the entire hidden thoughts dance with strange shadows in deep asking about that light which penetrates my silence evenly. You may want to see my soul jumping over the grass with these shadows; you may like to know how this
  • 13. 13 faint light embodies my dreams, my thoughts and my truth. You might not know that you are that faint light. I am a farmer from the south where there is no light or moon. My skin is a swimming goose and my eyes are a dawn’s waiter. But, in a hidden night, where our birds were sleepy and my father jar has immersed in its deep dream, I saw dancing light in our orchard. We have no light but that dancing light has visited us in an absent night. Silvery Chants I am nothing but a boat its wing has silvery chants I can't tell you their secrets. When the silvery voice showed me its soul, all the deep whispers dissolved in my dream as a sleepy rose. I can tell you another mystic glance; there are slivery seas, and you can feel their fingers touch your depth with calm astonishment. No, I am not a sorcerer, but I am just a passenger can’t sit on our bough when my talk about the bright horses. There were cities of a sliver its whispers touch our window with smiles, penetrate our depth without delay and invade our souls with a deep salute. I was just a young child, and you can't expect to find in my pocket any fairies but our land is the daughter of a silvery voice. Yes, I was just a smooth southern child sits on our bough with slivery chants in his small pocket." A Farmer from the South
  • 14. 14 I am a farmer from the south bring nothing in my pocket but oranges. Look at my face, it is brown and look at my hands, they are white. I am from here, from the south; an Eastern man with a dreamy soul. Yes, I am a dreamer from the south; my heart bears nothing but simple love and my mouth smiles without cause. I'm an old farmer, know the amazing colors of the flowers’ hearts where the blue dreams wear their shiny dresses and the whispers make a sunny cake for the morning’s birds. When the squirrel travels through the green songs, all the flavors take their pink veils and when the rivers chant their daring stories, every girl immerse in her blue dreams. They fill the times with a stormy passion and plant smiles in our dry deserts. In their sleepy eyes, you can see the river’s secrets and from their loud whispers, you may know the silent wishes. Dead Dreams My grandfather had a ship, but I think he could not imagine the size of my dream. I mean my motionless dream. I also have a ship, but I have no wings and no feet. Here, in my chest there is nothing but crippled wishes. I mean beautiful wishes but there are no roads nor trains. In other words; I am a lifeless man immersed in this useless dream. Please look at me; do you see our dry sea? And look at our ship; it is just an illusion. Yes, it is just a ship of dead dreams. I am so sad that my soul is useless and my life is a bag of dreams. My legs are crippled and my arms are very short. Oh, the great world please give me a wing, just a single small wings, so I can see that lower windows. No I not an under-earth creature but there is no sun, no moon here, and we live our days blindly and simply. Yes, we are out of date but we, as you, have dreams, and we, as you, have wishes.
  • 15. 15 Simple Man I am a simple man from the south where the green dreams color the sun’s eyelashes. My smile is dizzy but my eyes are brilliant so I can travel through the infinity as a shadow. Now I see a light; it is slivery and soft as the moon. I see a brave ship swimming in my destroyed ocean. It is flying in my illusion with birds’ tales. Yes, I am here, with this motionless body; a young Eastern man drowns in his shameful hesitance. The dark sands hide my butterflies behind the illusions and distribute the roses of death on the roads. They are blind like our sunset which has no face. It leaves me alone in the cold night tales, but from the dry air I will make my milk and from its bronze breath I will make a river. Yes, I am the son of sand sitting on the top of the hill, repeating old songs. I am a grey body know nothing about the sun. It’s me, the simple man who was growing in salty desert; my dreams travel with the evening like migratory birds and my life is so neglected like a cat under the rain. I am living in a faceless desert, so you can't see the carousels in my heart, and all what I can imagine is my gray stick. We should be good and laughing as exactly as my grandfather, but I am a simple man know nothing about the grass. This earth, which I always love, stands over my shoulder with cold extremities, so I can't see her gloomy face, but I grope everything in her corners.
  • 16. 16 Rainy Wishes The face of earth will be grim without the childish jumping of the rain drops. Yes, rain is a pleasant bending which had planted the ambergris in the hearts of our farmers. My ancestors have taught their souls the abysmal waiting, and kneaded their mud with its tales, so you may see them sitting in their narrow gardens with rainy wishes. They look at the sky and whispering with yearning. Yes, you are right; I am the inheritor of silence and rainy wishes. The rain is the yearning’s tear. I remembered when the sky had ascended towards the throne; she remained looking at her sister; the earth, with deep passion. Silently she was sending kisses with the wind’s wings, but when the yearning fires, her eyes tear with rain. Yes, the rain drops are the grieving tears of a lucent soul. I like rain because it is the portrayal of love. His color was wet, but warm and his hand was shivery but kind. He comes at evening as an old tale hugs the small leaves with big passion. When we get lost in our rainy moments, we find a breeze embracing our bare souls. I can’t imagine how it will be miserable, if I can’t see rain drops’ dancing. BIRDS
  • 17. 17 Here, on our earth, the birds are brown, and their hearts are delicate like women. You can see our palms; they are pretty, and you can see our birds; they are wise like the builders of Uruk. The obscurant strangers had tried to steal my grandmother colored carpet, but our amazing birds have unwound their magic and negated their wicked amulets. I am so happy because our earth has a colored dress and her birds are still in deep love despite all these dark nights of wars. Our birds are neither lame nor ugly, but the dark wind is so tough and liar. I am always standing under that tree and when the sun opens her eyes, I see how our birds kiss the smiling earth passionately. Our birds are very smart song singers; at morning they teach me the warm passion and at evening they plant in my depth the quite peace. What a lucky man I am; with these true avian narrators, I can cross the magic oceans and hear the hidden desires of the remote fairies. I am not a romance narrator, but I want to tell you that our earth is still beautiful and our birds are still lovers. The Gypsy Girl I like our quiet lakes and their reviving breeze, where the water’s eyes are always sleepy. You can't imagine its red cheek in the winter nights. I remember when my mother had made a nice hat for it. My mother is so expert in the seasonal souls and she told me that Autumn is a gypsy girl. I didn't see Autumn, but I am sure that my mother saw her because she described her face precisely. She told me that Autumn flies between the trees’ branches as a small bird and leaving her veil weaving airily in our souls. Sometimes I
  • 18. 18 feel that Autumn is a fairy and you may see her stormy tale swimming deeply in our dreams’ water. My grandfather also expert in seasonal souls and he had a beautiful horse filled with compassion. I didn't see her, but they said that she was legendarily brave. My family might have possessed a wagon. I don't know and I didn't ask about this, but I think if we had one, it will be closed as the desert’s souls. I am an Arabia man and you know there is nothing here but desert, so I decided to bring a gypsy wagon to my home to learn my children the freedom and some tales about the gypsy girl. COLD PASSION It has stolen any possible warmth from the bag of my days, so I was delightedly standing under that tree as a damp bird. This lovely coldness intentionally cuts my skin with her hidden knife, and destroying my face like a frozen lake’s water. She had fiercely slapped my face, so you are seeing the redness on my cheek every morning. I am a man of the twenty-first century and my legs had dipped in the soul of the earth as an old cow. I don't like the darkness, or its cold voice, but my hand was frosted as a woman’s coat and my friends’ hearts were hung on the absent trees of our coldness. Our sun has a thick veil and many daughters with hard hearts; they are lightless and cold. Everything under our cold sun is icy and soundless even our evenings which they were travelling between the ambergris as a blind grasshopper. They are as an eternal hero eating all the beauty and building on our back all the glory. Please don’t ask me about their skirts or hair, because in addition to my blindness they have cloudy faces and we know that they had arrived from their cold winds.
  • 19. 19 RIVERIES The River’s Flowers When the morning starts his journey, and the squirrel travels through his green songs, all the flavors take their azure veils. The flowers, the women, and the old farmers know the amazing colors of the river’ tales where the blue dreams wear light dresses and the faint whispers make an aurorean cake from the early dawn smiles. The time is an absent moment without the rivery passion, and the places are just dry deserts without its colors. Through their hidden secrets, we see our sleepy dreams and from their loud wishes, we write poetry with hidden letters. The blue flowers of our river try to see the womanish glances that teach the world its marvelous existence and give the life its shining love. When the days try to sing their beauty, they will intonate their magic chants and when the rainbow decides to wear its colors, it will take from their beautiful cloaks. Yes, the magic lands see their wonderful smiles on the face of our river flowers, and the winds can’t find her eardrops without its mirrors. The rivery wind is a legendary tale penetrating our depth with her stormy love. It colors our world with its unique flavor, gives the life its spicy taste and its glances teach the hearts their yearning. The river is our wavy essence, and the wind is a free woman with an orange mantle. FENCES Fish is pure, and a real water lover, so it will promptly die without its kisses. The fish, unlike me, knows nothing but the truth, and does anything to live with freedom. When the blindness puts weirs
  • 20. 20 on the river's chest, I heard a fish’s voice and I saw the blood. The weirs are a face of death, absence, and stealing, but when you look at my hands, you may know that I am a smashed weir. I am neither a horse nor a rabbit and when the sunset kisses their old wood I realize the sweetness of the fence-less life, but when all these horses with their heroes stand on my back, at that time I will remember our war’s children. You know, grass is green and the horses are attractive, but who will love my small rabbit? Because of this, I will die alone in a dark soul away from your hard fences and bitter hints. I will live in the horse's forehead, behind the lovely fences. I mean behind any heartiness. Yes, I remember my grandmother’s white fabric which she had used as a barrier to make the cheese. In fact, I had liked that barrier because I did not like milk and because it is real andwhite but you see our days’ barrier; they are red and gloomy. They are, like my heart, bitter and dark and their hands filled with lie. Sad Shadow I am a dry leaf from Iraq, know nothing about the beauty or artists, and all what I know is the blood and tales of the war. Here, in my broken chest, is a pale boy, lives in this wide earth with a small soul and walks in this shining world with a hidden face. My trees are gray and my dreams are sad shadows. When I open my twilight, I hear our weepy birds, and when I close my evening, I saw our killed moon. I am an Iraqi man, and my soul was kneaded with the war’s tales. Our streets, which are immersed in the war’s perfume, had straggled in the desert of the sadness, and like our girls, they always dream of fireless days. We are here, under worry clouds, waiting migrant holidays, but our legs had inherited the gloomy
  • 21. 21 faces. Here, in my crying earth, no rose, and you can’t see but sad rivers. Here, in my city, you find the coarse moon which is the son of our caudex. A Dry Breeze The evening with its breeze has planted in my soul an unforgettable tales. I don't like the crying, and as any man, I wish to fall in a deep love, but you see my smashed tress and my lonely streets. I am a man from the ruined land; My dreams were killed as a beautiful bird and my smile was stolen in a bright day. I am standing under that dry tree as a shadow without feet or head. I try to cry and always attempt to wash my bitter heart, but the stormy wind is constantly coloring my soul with a dry breeze. It is delicate as a green apple. Under its wings, the town lives with quiescence, and the swans dance like sun songs. The field’s birds with their vivid colors, bath over its swings with delight. Wet leaves fill the street with morning songs and moisten the girls’ hearts with the dreams. It comes from a remote land on softness’ wing. Its sleepy eyelashes color my blue dreams with pearl taste. They are so bashful, but they inspire my body an unforgettable heartbeat. They hit my head by their stones, so I feel incompetent. In their hands the gentle Saba breeze appeared more peaceful. How can I touch their tales?
  • 22. 22 Sandy Man I feel your soul and I can grasp all the romantic night stars but I can't love you because I am a sandy man know nothing but dryness. Yes, I hear your voice and I can see your face but I can't love you because I am a sandy man bear nothing but sadness. Believe me I have immersed in every awesome strange moment and I can smell perfume of the sea flowers but I can't love you because I am just a war remnant has no heart My times are always alone, and my birds are always pale, so all my nights are shivering and all my fish can't speak loud, but in the midst of this coldness I can hear the ocean, and his soul colors my heart with a lovely blue warmness. I am from the south; my skin is brown and it becomes darker when I hear about the giant salmon of Japan. I have an amazing coffee coloring my days but the story does not start from my grandfather’s coffee beans because my coffee is of instant type. Now I will tell you a secret; I am a farmer and I feel so delight when I vanish in our coffee’s flavor so you may see brown veils cover my face, but be careful, don’t touch me because I am a sandy man. Southern Daughters I am from the south where the trees are dry and the rivers are waterless. Our sky is dark and our sun is fogy. I am from that south where everything is colorless. The fields have daughters but the streets are always blind. These daughters are always smiling with eyes fraught with hidden tears. Their hearts are sad and their dreams
  • 23. 23 have broken wings. Our southern daughters are miracles and their braids give the sea its lucid blueness. They are secret daughters of the sea living in the fields as a butterfly. Their colored wings bring agreeable water from a remote well and their breaths make me swim in a remote lake. They are beautiful but strange and brilliant but hidden. Their glowing faces have been covered by a dark veil and their clement hearts have been smashed by my primitiveness. Yes, they are the secret springs’ daughters; their wings make me swim in a remote sea. You may see their summer, but you need a butterfly’s heart to touch their shining faces. Pink Wishes Her, in my land, you can see everything, but be careful because our well are pink and dreamy. Her, in my land, you may find me at that bough with a pink face and a pink voice, but be careful because the wind her is also pink. Her, in my heart you will find yourself but be careful because your pink wishes will disappear very fast. I am a farmer from the desert; look at my old mantle and you will know the story. Yes; there may be hidden whishes in my heart but believe me there is nothing here just pink wishes. In an absent morning, I had felt dreamy and I saw phantoms of these wishes. Yes,
  • 24. 24 greenery can occur in the desert as an absent dream. Just believe me. I am the farmer from a green desert. THE SOUL OF LIGHT When the roads open their eyes, all the blue fish come to my sea. The road is a smile exits its pink ear from that window which sleeps on my mother hand. Without any delay, I am disappearing in its light where the warmness wears its whit coat. My heart, like a bird on an icy bough, will immerse in that moment comes from her chant; the soul of light. My love is that wind which can bring all the sky clouds, and that grass which hugs all the world goats, but the mother love is a different world and impossible in its oneness. When the morning’s happiness poured, and the foggy shadow secluded, at that moment I knew that the sun had a pure splendid face and the wings of light went to laugh with their full days. When the mask of darkness falls, I will see all the towers and the glorious rain chants on your hands, where the secret springs of the universe have been immersed in the dust of clayish towns and misted by their brown breeze. I saw your azure trees smiled at the waterfalls and your carnelian submerged in ice tobacco of Mashu Mountain. The white wings of your blooming spirit told the earth the tales of light which had been colored by a shawl of a girl gathering the date from her grandfather orchard. So, the mightiness of earth bends with astonishment at your old glitter and flies as spatial vehicle had seen a new face of the moon.
  • 25. 25 Windy Moments In our windy boat, you can see all the blue colors, and the deep lands of the dreams. When you reach those remote lands and when you see my pain, please ignite a candle in our cold night, and make this sleepy world know something about the truthful light. I know; you can't remember the souls of the flowers which know nothing but beauty but when you drown deeply in our dreams and when you meet all the possible illuminations, at that time you may find the windy finger of the poet. With it, we have crossed the seas of sound where the magic fields singing their ballads. At these windy moments, some secret souls greeted us warmly and as a dazzled butterfly, we ended in love of this earth and exited from its fissures with a crown of heavy years. Whispers Do you know anything about the sea’s whispers? Do you see the smiles which reside behind his veil? The sunset loves the sea, where the sun combs the hair of the fish and draw smooth seasons on his tales. I heard his whispers; they are filled with true. I saw his dream in a precious moment, it is blue and brilliant. It whispered from there: Where will you find your story? The violet roses are sleepy, and the mirrors follow the white trees. The birds and the fabled river know that moment, which needs a smile and warmth. It said: the river colors are descended from that balcony and they should kiss the eyes of flower seller. It whispers: when the moon sleeps in your lids, you will know a new kiss and you will see the cloud flowers. I will
  • 26. 26 drown in the yearning sea. I will hug that train where we met sleepy sounds, so from there, my story will begin. Grandmother’s Tales I love the moon because his smile is shining like the tales of my grandmother. She was whispering every night in my dreams’ ear, and telling me the story of colorful birds in that remote land. She was a good narrator, and sometimes her narrative surpasses our narrative poetry. I saw her ocean and sat beside its shore in that warm world. I told her my story and inform her about my shivering years, which the gray souls had eaten their peels. I told her that I don’t like to cry, but you see there is no place for my smile. Those bloody souls had stolen my life. They said that the body is the cause of the sadness, but I found no truth in their red voices. I had heard my grandmother’s tales and she whispered in my deep that the love of the moon doesn't need blood. Red Winter You sit there, on that bough with my dream, but I can't see your beauty because my eyes were drowning in the winter redness. I am a red man from the red land; my coat is worn and my soul is smashed. No summer here and no spring flowers; just a red winter. Our trees have a red moaning so you see a red voice comes from their astonishing remnants. They are trying to come back from their alienation. They try to inhale ardor of love but a crazy fire colors them with red nectar. Yes, the desert air is so dry and there are a lot of red plants, and red animals. There is nothing here but redness and shadows of lives. The water is red here, the air is red and the love rose is red.
  • 27. 27 Valentine’s Birds I am not a tree and can’t sleep in the hearts of these springs, but the lovers have made a home for valentine’s birds which they know nothing but love and say nothing but chants. They are the creatures of light; from their journeys, all the beginnings started, and on their hands, you can see the chants lying with inner peace. Those valentine’s birds stand under love’s trees and give me an amazing kiss but my days, like my poems, are grey and tasteless, and they oftentimes asked me to throw them from that old bridge. Yes, I am an old lover who can’t drink his coffee without s ardent tears and his wide heart passionately disappeared in the remote cities where the souls can’t say anything but love. Yes, I will bring a jar of valentine’s smiles from those cities to color my grey days. I will tell my land that love is a colored treasure I saw before the wedding of the sun and the growing up of the grass, so our earth will wear a white dress, our shy whispers will breathe kindhearted gazes, and our birds will sing their chants. A Magic Veil My palm tree is as beautiful as Abigail. Her eyelash is tall as a river and her veil had come with the ancestors’ souls to unloose our tight dreams. I can feel her wavy pulse and I can see her treasurable earnings behind the shawl. Near her foot, there is a spring of magic water, and beside her wishes I see my face which had been stolen as a yellow bird. Yes, we have a thick curtain, which is unintentionally colored by our pale moments and, she is, without delay, coming in the evening with the strange winds to comb our ragged hair. In fact, I can’t differentiate her mien from the faces of our days, and because of this confusion, sometimes I think that she is my mother. She was standing there to lessen the voice of the light and to magnify our internal awareness, but because of its redness, she has always recalled the sad stories of our stolen life and the insolent visages of the wars.
  • 28. 28 Colored Evening Our dreams have a colored evening, which refreshes the hearts as smiling girl. We liked its whispers, but when its letters take their real shapes there is nothing but sadness. We are, as the blind trees, knowing nothing about its breeze and all what we know is a constant trying to live and a continuous attempt to catch the remnant of this wide world. Our hand is so hot like the soul of sunset. They have burnt our hearts with its passion, so you can't see here but flowers. It comes with its reviving breeze to open our doors, but I am the blind son knows nothing about its amazing orange. It can fill my lung with rebels’ breaths and vanish my dreams in the freedom’s wings. I have emerged from its dress’s weaving, as a butterfly and disappeared in its red colors as a remote land. Red Mantle Life sits on her high chair and looks at me with a hidden smile. She knows that war had stolen our rainbow, and had left me as bare as a rock. Yes, I am a gray man, know nothing about the vivid perfumes, and my dreams are faded as an old wood. Do you see these fissures on
  • 29. 29 our earth? They are our girls’ heart; they need some water. Everything will be velvety when our thirsty souls find the water of peace. My mantle was red; I am the son of wars, and all that you can see is my crippled remnants. I don’t remember anything about the peaceful dresses, because our town brides were killed before their weddings, and our land’s face was smashed by the unknown. Now, we are loveless and know nothing about the moon’s tales. We are always looking for our lost dresses in this white and wide world. Here, we can't see our hands because they disappear in the mouth of war, and we can't hear our voices because they drown in its absent ocean. The Blind Man Here, in my crying earth, there is nothing but pale faces and rhyme of a red pain. My eyes see nothing but the empty sea and I can feel the rocky hands of the world destroying my doors. Oh blind world, I can't see your heart and I remember very well when you told me about your colored trees but when you put your head on the bellow, you should remember our children and their bloods in your rivulets. Your blind winds have seen all beauties on riverbanks so they can't understand the causes of the salt bloods in our water. They can see our pond but there are no beavers in it because of these salt souls push them to run away as strange butterflies. You told me about their magic amazement but believe me I can’t see but a blind wind destroying my dreams. It is a memory comes from faraway lands and told us about the adventure
  • 30. 30 which had sat in our depth. It always told me that the wind is a strange leaf misleading us with illusions but when we sleep, we see its face clearly. At that moment, it will show us its cold stories. I am not a big delusive mirror, but I feel that I am a colored shadow seeking a unique flower, and when I find her, she says: Oh the seeker, sometime you need to be blind to see clearly. I hear her voice, and see her face in my heart, because I am a blind man. SECRETS When the sleepy leaves saw my red birds, I dissolved madly in the silent voices. Please, behold my shelved life; it is the beauty of my waste love. Yes, I am inchoate, so you see my words trundle freely and insanely. I am a suntanned man but not nebulous, so I can count my fingers easily because I am midget as the old tidbits of my mother. I am from here; from the south. I am always disappearing in our founts’ secrets. Please look at our faces; when you see our eyes, you will find our secrets totally nonsecret, and all that strange tales will reach your heart before the morning paean. Look at our earth, we are the farmers from the south; our dreams sleep before the columbine and our sadness juts out from this land’s furrows as shadows know nothing about the secrets of eternal love. Yes, it is me; a farmer from the south. My hair is grassy and my dream is heavy like an old train. If you touch my heart you will see the stream secrets and if you open my treasure you will find the colored stones. Yes, I can escort the sunset and catch its red roses but I know nothing about their chants. Now, I will tell you a secret; don’t love a farmer, because his feelings are inchoate and his passion is volcanic all the time.
  • 31. 31 Bizarre Souls The life is so vacant without salt of the babyish Souls. They color our rocky hearts with their frivolity and give the small hares their flying winds. If your old trees had taught you the antique aloofness, you should discover your babyish spring’s warmness. I am not a delusional man but I know that the bizarre souls are the blood of our world. I feel their warm colors and unwinds them in my dreams. their voices were silvery like hidden waterfalls and their palms are smooth like the sorcery moons. You can see the sunset in their eyes while they chant the lucent songs. The corners are colored by their brown shadows and barefoot boys jump over their grass as squirrels and fill their winds with faint smiles. It is so amazing to see smiles in my earth; the land of the bizarre souls. The Strange City We live in our earth under the wings of Azzalan. It was my grandfather’s rivulet, where he had trenched it in an angry moment, so our souls were filled with warm songs. Despite all these purity in my skin, I am as well as any Iraqi young turning my eyes toward the anonymous city. I want to die cheaply, and to live in humiliation in that strange city which filled my heart with a colored loneness and an incisive coldness. A Strange holiday The holiday is a very delicate thing. We learned it in our childhood, as we learned to carry our bags. It is smooth as a summer dream, filling our chests with spring butterflies. I was very happy when I touch his heart. Its waterfalls amazed me. They were calm as girl braids. That
  • 32. 32 holiday, which we saw him in someday, and we feel his sleepy hands; I see it clearly when it plants the wet tales. That holiday, which is coming from faraway town, stands with its silky coat in the middle of the street as a strange man. It dissolves in our veins as a passion letter. I was very wrong when I assumed him an emigrant goose. The Door of Freedom I will vanish in love of Euphrates like smooth fish. I will learn the red chant so the free land smiles for its lovers. It is my beginning towards the warm skies and my story in a waterfall kissing the walkers’ foreheads. From there, the spikes of wheat radiate with thousand lights fill the earth lungs with new dawn. The souls will be barren without red tears. Look at Husain’s voice, the wide door of freedom. Look at the sadness of eternity and softly fumble its bashful bracelet; the space of the hopeful sun. He is the freedom’s kiss I will dissolve in its love without delay. He is the Euphrates’ true saying and a story doesn’t know any dreamy song. Listen to his scream: "There should be a new dawn saving this drowning world. A Grey Winter Winter is a cruel knife cuts my joints with a cold blood. He isn’t smiling; he is grey just like my dream. This winter which I feel vigorously is not kind, and you can see the sad tears in its pocket. His rain colors my soul with pale smiles and his hard whisper plants unforgettable tales in my deep memory. In that grey winter, the birds don’t shiver because of love; they just shake their feather enjoying the winter’s stories. Here, winter dresses a different color and a different cruelty and all that can I see are these pale shadows. Here, winter isn’t tenderhearted; it is my grandfather’s gloomy field where the bean swings over its grass as a sad bride. I am the son of winter; my ancestry had left me alone in this frosted lake. Look at my face; it is colorless; feel my hands; they're short and dead. The pain is deep in this grey winter, and the smiles have left our garden without goodbye. In its nights I am
  • 33. 33 just a shadow over cold trees and in its days, I am a blind owl. This winter is blind and dry, nothing here but cold smiles and white dead flowers. Believe me, I have tried to plant a pink rose but the hands of this blind winter freeze my heart. Its gray mantle knows the roads of my mute lip and the coolness of my faceless moon. Warm Muteness Can you hear my warm muteness? Can you touch all that warmness? You are there, on that remote bough seeing my cold veil. It covers my ardent yearning with frigid smile and colored my torrid wings with cold feathers. Can you feel? The winter’s chants leave in my street's unforgotten memories. Their cold moments are filled with silence. They freeze me as an old forest tree. The wretched ships vomit the eternal pain and the snowy trains penetrate my ears. They hide me in this wide space as a strange end and deluged me in vapor so you see my words have dropped in the slime and my flowers have run away. In a cold night, my vehicle has lost its eardrops. The pain was deep and the smiles have left our garden like hoopoe. At that time, I was a shadow between the trees of a remote owl. They are strange, dry and blind but there are smiles and white flowers. I had tried to bring a flower but that cold night was thick, red and its heart had a gray mantle. Now, I think you know the causes of quiescence of our mute lips and coolness of our faceless corner. I Can't Die as Soldier This is my heart stumbles between the valleys. Its feet are made from bitter ice and its eyes are remnants of a brassy sound. I had searched for long time; I searched in every place my fingers reach. I searched in my gray color, and I searched in my descent but I did not find a picture of soldier. I know that I am impure and blind but I should find my
  • 34. 34 pureness to see the picture of that soldier who longs for free death. I am now so sorry because I can't die as soldier and I know that the life has a smile which can't be seen but by the soldier death. I am standing here every day as a strange bird; I am standing here lonely and listening to that voice; my heat voice. Yes, I am standing here every day awaiting return of my pure soul to die as a soldier. Free Bird I am an old farmer cannot see my figure, but on the water face. It was small like my dream. At that time, I had been a child dissolved in the butterfly colors. Oh, the purity which they steal it. They take our smooth olive, make missile from it, and then they told me that I am a serious plant. Yes, without tiredness I shall repeat the birds’ songs, I should not care about the world brassy face, nor the one-eyed city. Yes, I shall learn the earth the rose voice, and the lonely winds won’t find a place in my skin. I am a free bird loving the mud smell, and because my father planted me with our wheat, I like the noon sun when it touches my face. You can feel my pulse with its great tales of blind sand where the echo groans as a yellow bird exhausted by rain. It narrates his bright pain with wide eyes. The crying clouds are shameful because they dissolve his feather and bring an autumn whoop filled with a yearning death. Oh the bitter yearning, I am not happy and can't tell you my fiery passion, but you should remember that yellow bird and his grey blood. Salty Remnants After all that warmness which overflowed me with falls of light, I find myself just a crippled shadow. Here is my heart, look at it; do you see
  • 35. 35 anything except salt? I am the corpse which had been thundered by deaf fever. I lean down on barefooted roads as a stranger, nothing recognizes me but cold. In my salt soul I cannot see but groaning. This is me: a salt shadow dreaming of waterish hand. I am the son of war; know nothing but smoke and see nothing but black colors. My rivers filled with salty tears and my dead children lie on the dry streets as cheap rocks. Look at my hands; they were smashed as a west paper, and look at my face which was stolen under a bright sun. I don't want any song or any celebration. All my wishes are to see my women without weeping and hearing my birds' chants without crying. O, blind world, who was killing my dreams with a cold blood. O, the humanity who had forgotten me as an extinct creature. I am a man from Iraq, do you see me? I am just a heap of salt remnants. Their ghosts ride on me as a blind horse so I am good only in clashing with my trees. I do not see all that glory but I can see a stone bleeding my feet and a harsh trunk cleaving my head. Our Earth The colors of our trees tell you the story. This earth is our heritage and without any delay, we disappeared in her fragrance. We are swimming in her lakes like a fish and drown in her smiles as a sunset. Our earth
  • 36. 36 has lucent wings and her birds wear white coat, so you can imagine her beauty. Our days are mirrors of our souls and their smiles are the chants of love. The night kisses are just echoing of the morning roses. They will be white if the birds of our hearts are cloudless, and they will be gray if our images are hard. They may show you the laugh or the tears and you should remember that their flowers can't open their eyes in a hazy sky. Our days are warmhearted; if their coldness burned your cheek in the morning, their breeze will be amazing in the night. Here is our white boat, where our dreams chanting their songs and our happy moments blossom. Its warm woods appease my heart, and draw on my pulse a butterfly searching your face. When you feel my husk in your hands, and when you see my soul flying dreamily in front of your eyes, at that moment you may remember our boat. Gray Tale I know the wars and their ugly voices, because I am their son. The war is a gray tale, dressing her red mantle in lonesome nights. It had stolen my blood and any smiley piece, so you may see nothing here but sad moments. In the morning our children fill their eyes with hazy clouds and in the evening, you can smell the odor of hungry souls. The walls of our rooms are fissured like a smashed soul and the beds of our brides are bloody like the colors of our streets. The Youngsters and oldsters are sitting in the dark corners waiting their hazy fate, and every hand here has nothing but paralysis. Without any sin we are drowning deeply in the fired field, and you are, the reader, doesn't do anything.
  • 37. 37 The Rocky Flowers I remember my grandfather’s flowers; they were silent and colorless like my life. They always filled with a fugacious blossom, and incessantly hid with gray veils. Those rocky flowers have dressed my face his unaccountable failures and as a womanish heart; they have colored my life with their bitter passion. They have taught me the sadness since I saw my earth’s tears, and as legendary heroes; they have filled my streamlets with blood. They are conqueror and has thousand songs, but I; the farmer from the south; know nothing about them. They are slim and bright but their heart is rocky. When they visit our city, our damask rose disappears quickly and our wells become bloody. No warmth on their hands and no place for my small dreams. Nothing there but empty spikes uncover their legs. Believe me; all our sadness can’t be happened without the silence of this soul which hides our dreams behind her lost head. It is here, in me, this icy tale, which always kills cold bloodedly my days. She is not beautiful at all, and in one day she shredded my kite fiercely. This obscurant soul teaches my flowers the war’s songs, and slyly lies near our riverbank with her dark sorcery. She is liar and blind like my moon. MIRRORS Our trees which wear their wishes are just mirrors swimming delightedly in remote seas. Their shadows sit in midst of the universe with blue chants. I know as any bird, that my mirrors need a new open air, and the smoke of the wars had killed my wishes. I know as any young soldier, that the black souls can’t buy my ambergris, and all the remnants of the wars’voices are liars. We like the colors of the flowers
  • 38. 38 and the sounds of the waterfalls, but what can I do if our mirrors were stolen in a blind night. Their touches which descend in a dazzled evening can't stay in my heart without scorch. My eyes are so small to see the beautiful life which sits behind that mirrors. Please tell me; how that mirrors can wash my dream while my soul combs her destruction without any pain? I am a smashed shadow, so don’t try to see my face. At the twilight, I try to kiss the faces of fairies and in the evening, I drown delightedly in a hidden ocean. Now, you can see my shadowed soul which sits on the blue chair with her silky veil. She always attempts to catch these melodic colors and plant them on the ocean’s mirrors. Old Farmer I am an old farmer and all these lonely winds can't find place on my tongue. Like a green leaf, I cannot see my face but in water and all kisses of North Mountains share me my pillow. I love the sun when it burns my cheeks and I madly love mud’s smell because my father had planted me in our rivulet. Yes, I'm dissolving in our rivers as a young butterfly and without tiredness I shall repeat the birds’ songs which give our blue flowers their free wings. It is me; a farmer from the south where the strangeness had drowned in the gulf. My voice is a watery tale and my yearning is an absent moment. Someday I had crossed into that sorcerous riverbank with a boat of silence. I had looked at the face of the field when it chanted its song. At that time I had met the travelers’ souls which gave me their treasure. They gifted my ribs unforgettable beats and hid in my pocket their eternal secrets. I am a farmer know this earth perfume. I grew between its legumes like a butterfly. Come here; look at the Euphrates’s sweetness. He doesn't
  • 39. 39 know any spite. With a brown garment and a headband, he descended as a desert cavalier, so it is not strange to see all that sand covering his face. Also, I will tell you about Uruk, the sleepy city, which was the seven wise men built up its foundations. Come here; look at my palms, and see how they are coarse like our trees. Because of this, you find the darkness sits there, in that corner with its icy dress, and killing my children. The Bare Land My life is salty like our grandfather’s brook which we try to plant trees in its sand without benefit. Because of his angry moment he had named "The angry stream; Azzalan" and because of its dead land they had named its village; "The bare land, Alaria". Despite all the palms which he had planted around it, you can't recognize its colorless face I am not in the bare land, but its dry winds color my dreams. The Pain Land All the moments of pain are just roads. They take my loneliness to a dark corner and teach it how to be familiar. The pain is a cold story dresses its colored veil in amazing twilight. No one can know the gray face of pain like Iraqis. No one can play the starring of eternal absent more perfect than my land. Yes, I am from here, the pain land. My father is the groaning and my mother is the weeping. The Glamorous Gardens The sun has two long braids, and goes out at dawn to her grandfather's flourishing orchard. It resembles the glamorous Kashmiri gardens,
  • 40. 40 where the faces are pure reminding me of the ancestors and the white apples are glimmering like pearls wrapping themself with silk. They advised me to leave the purple coasts, because the truth is a free bird. They told me that Iraq is the brother of sun. This was astonishing news. If so, where are the orchards of our dear grandfathers? Where are the thriving Kashmiri gardens? Summer is not beautiful Our summer is not beautiful because our girls have no new veils and our children have no smiles. In summer the sea is windless and the sky is cloudless but the eyes of this world are blind to see my bare body. Summer is so lightweight and my house is summery in everything; there is no sofa, no television and no life. Our morning is hot and empty and our evening is dry and painful. Our summer is not beautiful because its sun is dark and its tales are sad. Our Crazy Summer I am from the south where the sun is naked and the rivers are waterless. I can't give you a rose because our summer is a skilled flower’s killer and our butterflies had retired in an anonymous day. Our summer is crazy; his hair is not combed and his rings are strange. If you see his face you won't forget his scowl and if you touch his hand you won't
  • 41. 41 forget his coldness. Our summer is crazy and had taught us his bizarre story so this world’s people don't like our walking and they always try to push us from the bridge. The Faceless Land We can smell all the perfumes of ruinations because we are the sons of war. Its eyes kill our dreams and its hands clap our cheeks. When you walk in our land, you will tumble by our cheap souls and at that dark corner you will meet the faceless boys. Yes, we are sons of wars; our hands are empty and our souls are broken. The waterfalls can't moisten our dry hearts, and the river can't revive our rocky roots. No braid on our girls’ heads because war has stolen everything here every the girls’ braids. Their lips are dry with deep fissures and their faces and colorless like our days. Here, in Iraq everything is empty even the souls of the girls. You won't see the childish jumps of their feet or the playing smiles of their arms, but you will see thin legs and a very dry well. I am from the faceless land where everything weeps even the sun. Our women don't know but crying and their breasts had forgotten milk. They are the remnants of wars; their mornings start with wailing and their evenings end with groan. Look at our trees; they are brassy and coarse like the voice of our women and look at our lakes, they are dry like their cheeks. No love here because the lips have retired, and no beauty here because our women are faceless. A Thirsty Bean
  • 42. 42 The sunset is a son of light, descending at evening with azure eyes. He told me that the sun has long braids. He reminds me of the ancestors’ apples. If only you saw them while wrapping themselves with silk. Yes, I am ending in my crippled dream as a thirsty bean. I am neither an almond tree nor a warm voice so I always bend at morning with snowy face and turn to a very cold tale. As a thirsty bean, I’ve been looking for my face which was stolen by wars. I am the son of war; my heart is a dry desert and my memory was kneaded by tough dances. I am an Iraqi man; my life is postponed and I know nothing about beauty or love. The cloth of my dreams is short and all what I wish is seeing the waters of Euphrates without blood and the shells walk away from the crashed ribs of Babylon. All what I want is to live amidst the bean; the daughter of war. It is just like me, sleeps in the field without face. The Dark summer The summer’s kites are beautiful and bear our dreams on their wings but our summer always cuts their silks and leaves us with tears. Our summer is an old dizzy portent so he knows nothing about our dry flowers and sees our pain but doesn't send any breeze to smooth our reddish cheeks. Unlike our primitive souls, our summer is mysterious and dark. It has brought all the world’s smokes into our land in a faceless night.
  • 43. 43 The River Face The river and the remote flowers know the story. I don’t tell them the secret of our south treasure, but the bean has a gross voice, and you can hear all the news from her. He draws butterflies on our lips and makes from our pain a colored breeze. He is warmhearted and his pulse is always hot. From his face, the image of my soul emerges like a dazzled flower. She is blue and sleepy and there is a white spike on her left hand. Al-Mehdi I see the deer and the wolf play together, their souls are lovely as the moon and their hearts are delicate like a river. The woman walks safely from Cairo to Baghdad over bland grass and within flowery aura. I look at the leader of justice; his eyes see the truth, his mouth is filled with sapience and his heart is colored with mercifulness. He delights the hearts of his citizens with deep happiness, sates their souls with splendid wisdom and fills their hands with gold and diamond. At that glory, the sun is smooth like a veil, the moon is bright as a morning rose and the earth is rosy as a bride. When his state shines, the grass will smile and the flowers will fly with wings and the rivers will breathe the breezy love and the waterfall will grin widely. The gold will color the earth and the diamond will paint the trees. At that glory, the devil has no voice and the evil has no aides. When he occurs, the trees will be extremely laden and the flowers will be exceptionally amazing. He is the lover, the Sky man and the grandson of Abrahim. He is Al-Mahdi; his tongue doesn't know lying and his hand doesn’t do fault. His name will be called by Gabriel and his face will illuminate every heart. His justice words will push the Devil’s falseness out of the souls and his kindness will plant happiness in every house. Jesus will descend with him, so the Western hearts and Eastern hands will be one. Under the tent of God, the earth will shine with Al-Mahdi’s wisdom and Jesus’ kindness In that East-Western
  • 44. 44 state, everything is colored with happiness and the souls are totally free from the evil’s voices. Arab River I heard that the rivers waters, which breathe their laughs in the springs, will end in The Arab River. The birds which leave their eggs in the high trees will build their nest in the garden of my grandfather and the clouds which turn the sky dusty, will give their rain in our dessert. The bombs which had been made in the remote land will sleep in my river’s dreams. So I am a famous man and my river is a kind heart. River’s Tales The winter chants which had been made from our mumbles had a very delicate roaring. At that time the roads is wide because we are sons of old farmers know nothing about the river tales. In fact in "Al-Aria", my childhood town, everything is simple even the river tales, and you shouldn't expect that there may be fairies in our water. From that purity we had built primitive skyscrapers, exactly as our dreams. Now you can imagine the smell of our feet, it had left in our heart unforgettable trances. We didn't know how our dirty feet’s could illuminate the darkness and whispering softly in the ears of our silence? We did not know the color of the sun at its beautiful sunset. That is to say we are stolen people. In the same time our trees had knew everything, and this is very strange, where my tree know everything and I don’t know anything.
  • 45. 45 Magic Wind We are from the south, where there are no leaves or flowers. Our ancestors had planted us in a bare land, so the salty algae cover our souls. No birds here, in the south, and all what you can hear are delusional winds. They are not fairies, but I find every illusion on their palms. We love our magic winds because their white crowns scatter salty veils on our bare bodies, so we don’t need more dreams. You know; the salty dream close any door and bury any well but I don’t understand how these illusionary winds can play with our souls every time. The Colorless City The bears are not coarse or brown but soft like rosy balloons and the owl is not blind or ominous, but a witch and her white heart can see the truth. They used to talk to me about the stories of the ancestors but because of this cold city, rootless and homeless I am now, so I decided to live in a warm nest over a tree to laugh as load as I can. This city had slapped me with her hard hands and stolen every beautiful thing. Because of it, I had forgotten my smile and voice. A dumb man now I am, without color, exactly like this uncolored city. I know nothing about the spring’ deer and I never remember my dear trees. My soul is now in a big prison; the roads are smaller than my feet and the wall are taller than my dreams. This city has no mirror, so you can't see her face. In that city, I find myself a frozen picture on a wall. I am the son of green laughs, look at me; do you see anything except drought? My corners are dark like the soul of this city and the wail penetrating my breath like feet of invaders. I lean down on barefooted roads as a strange story; nothing here but coldness. In my darkened street I can't see but stifling loss tears my islands mercilessly. This is me; just a heap of fringe remnants in a dark city rides on me as a blind horse. I do not see anything but stones bleeding my feet, harsh trunks cleaving my head and hidden hands immersing me in turbid water.
  • 46. 46 Blind Wind In a very strange moment, I saw the soul of a blind wind; it was shattered as our southern life. That blind wind knows nothing but destruction of my doors and bear nothing but deceptive seeds. Their colored eyes are not attractive despite their smooth whisper. They fill my life with shivery boughs and paint my windows with cloudy tales. The ignorant moon has no idea about her salty sorrows. When we talk about her wishes, we should understand the deep yearning which makes her heart jumps over the grass with rabbit. In fact I did not see the tears of our blind wind, but my killed dream knows very well the colors of her moaning and the cooing of her eyes’ drops. She sits at the western bank of our river like the sun and she always narrates our ancestors’ tales with sad voice. Lastly, I have known from my mother that the salty taste of that wind had come from our sad stories. The Blind City I am a blind tree know nothing about the evening breeze and its chants. All I know is a failing attempt to catch the ragged remnants of this world. My leaves are pale and my dream has a faint evening sitting at a black door without sunset. The grey birds like its delusive whispers but when it takes its real face, there is nothing but sad boughs. I am from blind city where everything has no eyes even the girls. The bridges are so blind with weak breath exactly like the eyelids of my sick bird. In fact our bridges have no eyes and they know nothing about the novel fashions. When I touch their wood at morning, I feel their pain and when I hear their whispers at night, I saw their sadness.
  • 47. 47 Our blind bridges have endless waste because their lost eyes are so grey, like my soul. Violet Tales Our sun is violet but wears a white veil and our trees are also sad but unveil. Our tables are wide but empty and our hearts are purple but broken. We are from the south where everything is violet even our sons. When you immerse in our river you will meet a violet fish and when you read my poem, you will find all the violet tales. Here, that violet rose knows how to hug the fabled river in a moment needs a warm touch. I will drown in yearning; I will find that train where we met our story. She told me that the moon sleeps on the free lids and when you know a red kiss, you will see the cloud flowers. Nothing in my Depth but the Loss The windows are important because my father had said that winds are always kissing the glasses of the windows in the early morning. I can see the souls of the winds, but the problem is situating in my fingers where all the stories of absence reside in. In fact I am trying to color my soul with a windy gaze but as you see nothing here; in my depths, but the loss. My years are so affectionate because all the trees which we had seen in a special moment are absent. I like the absent moment and I love the absent fragrance of my grandfather. The colors are the remnant of a love story, and my eye is an old lover. Now sit please, don’t worry; I am ok; I am not crazy; I just try to live without my lost love.
  • 48. 48 I am a lean bough of a magic dawn; no sun on my forehead and no kiss on my neck. I know the freedom very well but I can't see the road. Yes I am a blind bird and I should learn from the freedom kiss how to see the life. There, on the mouths of freedom shapers, you find that violet kisses. Dreamy Butterflies Our women wishes are filled with pink dreams, and their desires dissolve on hidden windows in secret nights. Here, on the colored boughs you can see nothing but arousing smiles and you can't hear but stirring whispers. The hearts are so fragile, but they can see your brilliance and they can hear your chants. There is no wings here, but there are dreamy butterflies know nothing but love. Yes, they are dreamy butterflies; in their hearts windy stories and on their palms matutinal breezes. The Blind Hotels The streets, the cafes and the markets are human. The dresses, the perfumes, and the bags are human. The trees, the waterfalls, and the flowers are human. The snow, the sands, and the salt are human. But in spite of all these human, our spiritual hotels are empty. Our hotel is small and dark despite the wide gardens. In our hotel the walls are so thick and the souls are so discordant. We are good in making the walls and in someday we may see the aliens here to buy walls from us. Our walls are perfect and unbelievable; they prevent any love or any warm hands. There are no stairs in our small hotel because our crippling. When he whispered to me, I saw the sofa stole his coat, but you know I can't say anything, because of the pure blood of the sofa. Now, I think you
  • 49. 49 can imagine the size of the windows in our small hotel. Yes, they are smaller than my eyes, and because of that, the people call our hotel "The Blind Hotel". Crying There is no waterfall in Iraq and all what can I see is the bitter desert. Our dresses are black and our women are shadows of crying. I am a man without figure and like the birds; my home is a simple nest under unmerciful sun. Look at my skin, it is dry and look at my eyes; they are illusionary. My morning is a painful story and my evening is a sad memory. Nothing here but the crying; yes In Iraq everything is destroyed even the beautiful women. Gray Buterflies The silence is the journey of my sleepy soul. It doesn’t know anything but whisper. Look at it; it stands there like a desert’s bird where salty sands color its face. Its yellow perfume fills our shadowed dreams. Look at my deep corners; they migrate toward remote springs where the gray silence’s butterflies narrate my crazy motionlessness.
  • 50. 50 The Spring’s Lover The spring glisters like a girl, and when its water waking up, it mixes its coffee with all blue songs. I am a springs’lover, and I can’t hide my ardors in the yearning moments. What can I do if the windows of my depth can’t see but charming breeze? I Love the Writers I love the writers because my mother said that they descend from a magic paradise and hidden demons live in their souls. The legend says that the writers awake early to grasp the dreams and before the white dogs, they knock the snow’s doors to tell us the winter’s stories. The snowy mountains are in deep love with the hot mantles of the writers and the flying horses that emerge from their fingers have changed the gloomy colors. I have seen the writers’souls jump delightedly over the grass with the deer and from their smooth pens, the birds take their chants. You may feel the soft breeze plays with their eyes and you may sense their warm beats when they disappear in the river’s smiles. A Bloody lake My friend told me that there is a beautiful lake near his home. At that moment I remembered our lake. Yes in Iraq there is a lake, but it has been filled with blood. Its eyes are sharp and her sound is sad like my heart. When I see it, I remember our bare children and all weeping mothers. Yes we live in a sad land where you can't find any dream just a bloody lake. A Bitter Soul My grandfather said; there is nothing like a cold brook where the waterish breeze has colored the smooth butterflies. I am a man from the south where the streams covers our fields but I can't remember anyone. My grandfather was a farmer from south and he clove its brooks. He was keeping the tales of the green land in his chest as a
  • 51. 51 treasure but his grandson know nothing about the southern tales and see nothing but a dry life so you are seeing my bitter soul and you feel my thirsty heart. He Who Saw Light I love the mud, because it was a memory of your great hands. I feel so pride when I see flights of arrivers sit at your door seeking some nectar from you big secrets. Yes, I know, you look at us - the primitive- with a smile because you are Sin Liqui who saw everything. Here, we are talking about the infinity but you had kneaded it between your fingers and illuminated its dark cities by a leafy light. I see you on brassy Uruk’s porches
  • 52. 52 looking at us with a cup of tea glitters like a Babylonian angel who plays in the wilderness with Enkidu’s deer. Yes, your hands defeated the aging and death, because you saw the secrets. O Sin Leqi Unninni, you look at us and smile, because you are (who saw the light). when you found a sound, your journey became a river, and when you swathe the light, my soul became a flower, and when you met the sun, I found the hope. I am a flower from the sand’s cities suffers from love as a shepherd had been drowning in the gulf. I am standing in that corner, enumerating the yearning’s breaths. In one day I had bravely crossed the silence by a boat of light. I had looked at the faces of fields when they were chanting there lovely songs. At that time, the lights’ souls held my hand and gifted me their precious treasure. They fired my ribs with unforgotten flap and stroked my head with brassy stones. PALE MAN Our sky has inherited the worry clouds from the grey ancestors. It was waiting migrant holidays but our souls had nothing but gloomy faces. Our sky is a tear of a crying land where the sad rivers had written their stories. Here, you can’t see but dry flowers and in our hidden corners, you will find a pale moon with coarse cheeks. Look at me; I am the son of pale moon, my hand is very cold and my lip is fissured as a widow’s heart. I am a man made from wood and I don’t know anything about lying and I don’t like these pale lights; what the lying voices brought to my town. May I stand in the heart of this waterfall? I mean away from you pale lightness. I am a lifeless tree with colorless tales. I am a pale man can’t live with dauntless boat. Here, in my destroyed land, there is no glory nor
  • 53. 53 poems and all what can you see is a pale death. Our houses are filled with black bitterness and our grass is not green. Our girls are fields of sadness and our streets are mirrors of wars. Yes, we are sons of blind death but there are no fault on our hand and no any blood on our coats. Gray Bird I have a salty bird who had not tried to fly because he has no wings since his birth. His color was gray in the black era because of his faked praise. I am not a revolutionary man and I always try to walk beside the wall but my bird has an ardent soul and he has quickly changed his color to grasp any leftovers. The Silent Tree These birds love the silent tree and like to perch on that bough. You know; the love is unexplained thing but we know it very well. From
  • 54. 54 that lovely bough, the leaves and feathers had fallen with a quarrelsome smile. This was a heavy thing for that tired tree which is filled with sad stories. She always descends to clean the ground from the frivolous feathers. Her slim fingers drown butterflies and her broken heart chants absent songs. I saw her kissing water like my voice which I had forgotten at my postponed beginning. I am a wild man knows the animals' sounds but not pure like them. The bears are neither rough nor brown and the owl is sliver and sees the truth. At that glory, I was smiling in the morning and for many times I was sitting at a lake I didn't remember its name. Now I am rootless; my small hut had lost its threads and my mantle had colored with forgetfulness. This sharp city had slapped my cheeks mercilessly and immersed oblivion in my memory. I have been crying bitterly since that time where I had saw her. I am crying for my precious trees. I had forgotten my color and my voice. Now I am very sad and colorless and never remember the smiles of my missing trees. I am a yellow tree with cold whispers. As a thirsty spike, I am waiting crippled dreams. My streets had been stolen and my brooks know nothing but pallor. In April, the children fly lovely kites while my birds disappear in the mud with motionless souls. Oh my days, here is a wound, please listen to it. The Glorious Friday I love that fragrance which I knew very well and I felt in the glorious Friday in that luminous corner of sky. I love his words when he says" this is the decent Almehdi who will fill the towns with wisdom”. I see his turban with its uncurled end and see his horse; it's neat and agleam as a gem. The lands will cognize his forgivingness, touch his mercifulness and smell his vestal fragrance. Jesus will descend with him to show the globe shining dawn and guide the souls to the realness. His sword is decisive but merciful and his words are strident but egalitarian.
  • 55. 55 ILLUSION My smile does not eat her breakfast and my eyes became brilliant because of their illusion. Now, I can see a faint light with silver skin like the moon. I see a braves’ ship swimming under my destroyed roof and travels through the infinity as a shadow. It is flying in my wide illusion as a bird. Yes, I am here, with this motionless brain and useless body, an eastern man drowning in the illusions. I am a physician and I know very well the burning taste of the strange moments of illusion. They are like the gray papers which had been disappeared in salt seas without pain. Because of the hidden voice of that watching soul, all what can I see are our dry leaves which have colored our empty eyes. Now, you should know that I am in a thirsty time and my heart is faint like a dry illusion. In fact, I find the pleasure to color the sun’s eyelashes with a magic dreams. I like coffee because my skin is brown and coffee brings the pictures of my ancestors. Yes, my brown skin has made from the coffee illusion but my heart is a city of sadness. Here, in Iraq, the birds are made from illusions and the trees are just stories of tears. No, there are no birds in Iraq and what I have talked about is just an illusion because of our sorcery coffee.
  • 56. 56 The Cloud Tales It is silvery, just like my dream, this winter, which I began to feel vigorously. His rain colors my soul and plants in my deep unforgettable tales. When I learned its laughs, the moon lights had slept in my lids, and when I groped the face of a strange voice, the shine of the magic vehicles colored my dark nights. With all this glory, the cloud showed me her hearts, and planted their tales deeply in my soul. I feel them vigorously, and I remember very well their fragrance. How you can imagine it? How we can count the cloud tales? Do you hear its tale? She touches my heart with a whisper from a remote love. All the soft days take their colors from her water, and our warm corners drown in her tales with deep smiles. Her wet dreams fill our internal with the freedom’s breaths, and on her hands you can see a beautiful paint, but our hearts are so young to understand her glances. Remote Perfume She showed me the soul of pink flowers and the hidden colors of life, so the angels who know everything add nothing and the sorcerers who do everything do nothing. From her perfume, the world takes his meaning and the candles have no souls in the absence of her soft hand. You can’t feel the days’pulses without her perfume and the riverbanks’ flowers can’t find their chants but in her eyes. In fact I can't continue
  • 57. 57 to live in this empty desert because my horses smell her remote perfume. This remote perfume has reached me last days where I was driving my thought towards surrealistic free world. Believe me, I know that it has inspirational windows and its sky has awesome colors, but what can I do, if all my doors were stolen and all my eyes were closed by unknown?
  • 58. 58