7. Salty Tales
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Preface
Salty tales are expressionistic prose poems by Anwer
Ghani, a man from a land of wars, Iraq, where
everything has beed kneaded with salty sand. Every
tale in the land of wars is salty and bitter.
Salty tales are expressionistic narrative prose poems.
Expressionism in writing transfigures as a literary
piece has been written in a prosepoetry system with
deep images and peculiar vision. When the text has
appeared with the narrative superficial structure and
deep poetic one there will be the narrative – poetic
expressionism where the superficial narrative text
consists of deep poetic elements and there is no time,
place, or characters but there are poetic, lyric,
imagery elements which have been narrated. In this
hybrid system, the glory of both; prose and poetry
have transfigured completely, so it reaches the
infinite target of prose poetry writing. The
expressive narrative text appears in one block; no
lines, no breaks and no blanks.
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SALTIES
Salty tears
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?
A Salt Shadow
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 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.
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Salt water
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, a harsh trunk cleaving my
head and my grandfathers' tales telling me what they
saw when their heads were immersed in salt water.
MANNISH
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The Ocean Man
Our times are always alone, and our birds are pale,
so all our nights are shivering and all our 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 and because of this; my wife
likes to call me "the ocean man".
The Coffee Man
I am a simple man 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; we are
farmers and feel so delight when we vanish in our
coffee’s flavor so you may see brown veils cover our
trees. In Middle East the best coffee beans come
from Yemen, and there are good coffee makers but I
am as well as my friends addict on instant foreign
coffee.
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Yellow Man
I feel your soul and I can grasp all the romantic night
stars but I can't love you because I am a sand 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 yellow 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.
GRAYS
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A 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. She 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 liked 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.
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 Saddam’s 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.
Gray Butterflies
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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.
LANDS
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The Wizard Land
In "The Flowers’ City" the wild flowers cover the land
and her colored veil has a dreamy universe. On a
magic motorcycle with a soul had been filled with the
amazing road I had flown toward this magic land.
The wizard land steals the minds and left an
unforgettable memory in my deep corners. Honestly,
I am not a big traveler, but I am sure that I won't see
like this bewitching land.
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 from my life.
Now I am not in the bare land, but its dry winds color
my dreams.
The Pain Land
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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.
SUMMERIES
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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 forget his
coldness. Our summer is crazy and had taught us his
bizarre story so this world’s people don't like our
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walking and they always try to push us from the
bridge.
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.
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RIVERS
The River’s Face
The river knows and the remote flowers know also.
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.
Arab’s River
I heard that the rivers’ waters, which breathe their
laughs in the springs, will end in The Arab’s 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.
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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-Arian", 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.
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TREES
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 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.
Missing trees
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
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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.
A Yellow Tree
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.
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FARMERIES
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.
A Farmer from the south
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.
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A Farmer
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 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.
TALES
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Cloud tales
When we learned laughs, the moon lights had slept in
our 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?
Winter 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.
The Lake Tales
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Do you hear the chants of the lake? 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.
ILLUSIONARIES
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My Illusions
I love the reading and the big artists. I find the pleasure
to color the sun’s eyelashes with a magic dreams. My
smile’s page does not eat her breakfast and my eyes
became brilliant because of their illusions. 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.
Dry Illusion
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.
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Illusionary Birds
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.
PALES
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Pale Lights
I don’t like all these pale lights; what the lying voices
brought to my town. I am a man made from wood and
I don’t know anything about lying. May I stand in the
heart of this waterfall? I mean away from you pale
lightness.
A Pale Moon
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.
A Pale Death
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I am a lifeless tree with colorless tales. I am a man
can’t live with dauntless boat. Here, in my
destroyed land, there is no glory nor 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.
ROCKIES
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The Rocky Girl
The globalization is the indulged daughter of our wide
world. She is conqueror and has thousand songs, but
I; the farmer from the south; know nothing about
them. She is slim and bright but her heart is rocky.
When she visits our city, our damask rose disappears
quickly and our wells become bloody. No warmth on
its hand and no place for my small dreams. Nothing
there but empty spikes uncover their legs. Yes, it is
bending in amazing position but in fact there is
nothing in her head but the heavy air.
Rocky Flowers
I remember my grandfather’s flowers very well; 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.
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A Rocky Soul
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 me.
MIRRORED
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The Waterfall’s Mirror
All these touches which descend from that mirror in
a dazzled evening can't stay in our hearts without
scorch. Our eyes are so small to see the beautiful life
which sits behind that mirror. Please tell me; how the
waterfall’ mirror 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.
The Ocean’s Mirrors
I am a farmer from the south. My heart was made
from the sun rays and my pulse is a birds’ chant. 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 theses melodic colors and planted them on the
ocean’s mirrors.
The Sun’s Mirrors
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Our trees which wear their alfresco wishes and the
dreams which play with our small boys are mirrors
swimming delightedly on the faces of remote seas.
All of them with the free shadowed spaces sit in
midst of the universe with blue chants. Outside our
souls, the bags bring colored butterflies, but on the
faces of our trees, you can’t see but black sadness. I
know as any bird, my mirror need a new open air,
and the smoke of the wars had killed my wishes. I
know as any young soldier, 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 and
the sounds of the waterfalls, but what can I do if all
our sun’s mirrors were stolen in a free trade?
BREEZIES
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A Dry Breeze
That 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 these remnants 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.
A Slivery Breeze
This silvery breeze 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 colors my blue dreams with pearl taste and
its fragrance jumps between our breaths as a butterfly.
Saba Breeze
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Summer's waterfalls 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?
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WHISPERS
The Sea’s Whisper
Here, is our sea with endless dreams. 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 dreams
in a precious moment, they are blue and brilliant.
They are our souls.
Her Whispers
She whispers 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.
I will drown in the yearning sea. I will hug that train
where we met sleepy sounds, so from there, my story
will begin.
She said: the river colors are descended from that
balcony and they should kiss the eyes of flower seller.
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That colored shadow told me: when the moon sleeps
in your lids, you will know a new kiss and you will
see the cloud flowers.
Grandmother’s Whispers
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.
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REDS
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 wars’s land; my coat is bloody and my soul is
smashed. No summer here and no spring flower just
red winter.
Red Nectar
Our trees have deep 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 these
remnants with red nectar.
Red Conversation
-Dear, there are a lot of scenes for our TV.
-Oh, fantastic. You do well.
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-The desert’s air is so dry and there are a lot of wooden
plants, and dead animals. There is nothing here but
redness and hungry shadows of wars.
-Oh, surprising subject for our audiences.
-Yes, but there is no water here, just blood and no food
here, just burnt bones.
-Oh, come back. You will go back later on.
-Yes, you are right. The water is bloody, and the air is
red.
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WINDIES
A Windy Love
As a dazzled butterfly, I will end in love of this earth.
I will exit from its fissures with a crown of heavy
years. Like this, like a windy love, I will dissolve in
the lake’s dream.
A Windy Moment
In our windy boat, you can see all blue colors, and the
deep lands of dreams. With it, we have crossed the
seas of sound where the magic fields singing their
ballads. At that windy moment, some secret souls
greet us warmly.
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Windy fingers
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
we drown deeply in our dreams and when you meet
all the possible illuminations, at that time you may
find the windy fingers of the poet.
GYPSIES
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The Gypsy Girl
I like our quiet lakes and their reviving breeze,
where the water’s eyes are always sleepy. You
can't imagine his red cheek in the winter nights.
I remember when my mother had made a nice hat
for him. 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 feel that
Autumn is a fairy and you may see her stormy
tale swimming deeply in our dreams’ water.
A Gypsy Tent
I am not a hippie, but I seriously had thought to
live in the forest without cooker or air-
conditioner, just wood for the fire, and if you
don’t agree, I will leave fire for you. I will leave
all the walls and the closed doors for you. I will
drink the river water with the birds and eat the
greens with the deer. I will sleep under a gypsy
tent because I wish to dream at night widely and
chant at morning loudly.
A Gypsy Wagon
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My grandfather had a beautiful horse filled with
compassion and kindness. 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.
RANIES
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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.
Rainy Tears
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.
Rainy moments
I like rain because he 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
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bare souls. I can’t imagine how it will be miserable,
if I can’t see rain drops’ dancing.
VALEMTINES
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Valentine’s Birds
Our days are colored with passion where all
springs of happy times are emerging from their
tall amazing nails. I am not water and can’t sleep
in the hearts of these springs, but the martyrs had
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
travelling all the beginnings have started. Their
hands were silvery, and you can see their brassy
chants lying peacefully in our inner lands. Those
valentine’s birds are constantly standing under
love’s trees and give me an unusual kiss.
Valentine’s Smile
Our days are like my poems, gray and tasteless,
and they oftentimes asked me to throw her from
the bridge, but I am an old lover who can’t drink
his coffee without passion. They had a wide
heart, exactly as the big cows which I saw them
in the remote city, and without any delay I had
disappeared in their watery souls. These souls,
which you may see them in old mirrors, can’t say
anything but hesitancy and can’t know anything
about love, so I will bring a jar of valentine’s
smile to color their gray faces.
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Valentine’s Days
Do you see all the amazing colors in a beautiful
sky? They are merely a pretty smile of our love.
On his hand, I saw my soul and on his hat I found
my nest. Our love is a green treasure I saw him
before the wedding of sun and before the
delivery of the trees, so all our days are
valentines and all our shy whispers are holidays.
From our kindhearted gaze, the earth had made
her white dress, and from our smooth touch, the
birds had learned their chants.
WARS
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The War’s Son
I am the war’s son; my memory was kneaded by
her rugged dance and my heart colored with her
gloomy soul. When the tales of the mountains
ended at her cold knees, you will find me in her
smoky corners with my dreadful shivering. Look
at my water, it is dirty and look at my future, it is
nothing but vagueness. I am a good son, so I am
her mirror. I can shred all the flowers of the
sleepy mornings. I can drink all the milk of
Australian cows and I can destroy all the souls of
Cedar forest. Here, in my chest, is a legendary
fire with a voice demolishes the entire beautiful
mirrors and a passion kills the moon’s dreams.
The War’s Garden
I am an Iraqi man; my life is postponed and my
face was stolen by wars. My voice is vaporous as
a shadow and my dreams’s clothes are as short as
a laugh. I know nothing about beauty or love and
know nothing about Detian Falls. I don't want a
colorful hat, or a golden watch. All what I want
is seeing Euphrates lives a day without blood,
and the shells leave the crushed ribs of Babylon.
When you visit my garden won’t find but sadness
and won’t see but the stolen face.
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The War’s Daughter
The bean leaflets live amidst the stormy days,
and chanting sadly for our absent horses. She is
standing in the face of winter's hell and gives him
an icy kiss. She is like me, sleeping in the field
without a garment and planting all the wounded
souls in the sandy desert. The Bean is the
daughter of war, teaching me the beautifulness of
a free death. She resides in the death before her
birth and lives her end before any starting. I see
her gray soul at every morning and without any
delay I disappear in her bitter aloneness at every
evening.
FENCES
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A Weir
The fish is pure, and a real water lover so it will
promptly die without his kisses. The fish, unlike
me, knows nothing but the truth, and does
anything to live with freedom. When the
blindness puts weirs 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.
Fences
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.
Barriers
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
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did not like milk and because it is real, white 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.
RIVERIES
The Rivery Flowers
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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
The rivery wind is a legendary tale penetrating our
depth with her stormy love. She 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. As you see; I am
sitting behind trees to see the wind glory and
dissolving in my master words:" everything has a
rivery soul, even you."
The Rivery Color
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
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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.
COLDISHS
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Cold Passion
This coldness is one of the lovely pages which I
had met in my hard life. She is silently going
deeply in my dreams and making from my heart
an icy shadow. It has stolen any possibly 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.
Cold Darkness
My friends are so polite and respected and they
always try to drink the clean water, but
unfortunately we are in the same cold darkness
of universal humanity. 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 the coldness. My
friend, you may see the lights and grasp their
chants, but the real face of all of these illusions
is, heartbreakingly, a cold darkness.
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Cold Daughters
My land’s sun has a thick veil and many
daughters with hard hearts. I saw many of Sun’s
daughters walking in our streets, but the strange
thing that 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.
SADS
Sad Shadows
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Paris is a beautiful city, and since my childhood, I
had dreamed to immerse my brown mud in her white
water. 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.
A Sad Smile
I am an Iraqi man, and my soul was kneaded with the
war’s tales and the sad sumac. 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. The sumac, which we
inherited from our Babylonian ancestors, can’t be
transfigured without soft tears, but essentially you
need the Iraqi sad smile to find its sublime.
Sad Rivers
We are here, under worry clouds, waiting migrant
holidays, but our legs had inherited the gloomy 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.
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My palm tree is as beautiful and concealed 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. I want to tell you, that her magic veil is
unable to hide her soul, and despite of its
breathtaking colors, it can’t conceal her candle
lighter fingers.
Our Curtain
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.
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The Mantle
My heart is bright, not due to its soft whiteness, but
because of the bloodless dreams which had sat on my
rocky chest. I have, as any shadowed tale, tried to
hide my dead flowers by a worn-out mantle, so you
can’t see any picture of the revived fragrance. Here,
in my heart, all the remote dry wishes, which they
cover her nudity with a cloak. I am the mantle man;
my water is dirty and all these cloaks can’t conceal
its sadness. Yes, I am the nude man, and it is not
strange to see my feet immersed deeply in every
futile tale. I am the mantle of sadness; my land is a
picture of crying and my women are the boats of the
hardship.
TIMES
Sunset
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My hand is so hot like the soul of sunset. It has
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 blindness’
son know nothing about its amazing orange.
Twilight
I like twilight. It fills my lung with rebels’
breaths and vanish my dreams in the freedom’s
wings. I have emerged from her dress’s weaving,
as a butterfly and disappeared in its red colors as
a remote land. At that moment, there will be no
space for yellow words on my lip.
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, know nothing about its breeze and
all what we know is a constant trying to live and
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The Peace’s Water
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 our earth? They are our girls’ heart;
they need some water. Everything will be velvety
when our thirsty souls find the water of peace.
The Peaceful Dresses
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 Peaceful Tent
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We have a colored tent resembles the face of my
mother who spent her life in bringing peace from the
remote wells to irrigate our dry souls. You know, I
am a man from East; my color is different from that
of my western friend, but in spite of this we are in
deep intimacy which the moon’s lovers can't
imagine. Yes, our tongues are different, but our souls
are descended from that peaceful tent.
DAUGHTERS
Southern Daughters
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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 have broken wings.
Our southern daughters are miracles and their
braids give the sea its lucid blueness.
Secret Daughter
She is a secret daughter of the sea living in the fields
as a butterfly. Her colored wings bring agreeable
water from a remote well and her breaths make me
swim in a remote lake. She is beautiful but strange
and brilliant but hidden. Her glowing face has been
covered by a dark veil and her clement heart has been
smashed by my primitiveness.
Springs’ Daughter
The poem is a secret springs’ daughter. Her wings
make me swim in a remote sea. You may live her
summer, but you need a butterfly’s heart to see her
shining face. She told me in a strange moment: If the
words don't shake your heart, they are just a dead
paper.
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LIGHTS
Light lavaliere
Your carnelian was submerged in ice tobacco and
your azure trees smiled at the waterfalls of Mashu
Mountain, where the secret springs of the universe
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were immersed in the dust of brown towns and misted
by the breeze.
Uruk, the white wings of your blooming spirit told the
earth the tale of light, which had been colored by a
shawl of a girl gathering the date from her father small
garden.
I don’t amazed by those distances which were crossed
by knees and bare feet, and the time disguise which is
falling in your hall as a wax images. For this, the
mightiness of earth bends with astonishment at your
old glitter, where the Scorpion Men irrigate them with
silver water. They draw my souls in a shape of brown
bird, and give me a coppery kiss, so I fly as spatial
vehicle which saw a new face of the moon.
Didn’t you teach me the brown summer? Didn’t your
hot sands slap my face? Didn’t Euphrates immerse my
dream with angles? Because of this, I became a bitter
voice of light lavaliere.
- Carnelian, azure trees, Mashu Mountain and
Scorpion Men are characters in Epic of
Gilgamesh.
Light Wings
When the morning’s happiness was outpoured, and
the foggy shadow secluded, at that moment I knew
that the sun had a pure splendid face and the light
wings went to laugh with their full days.
O great woman, when the mask of darkness which is
perching on liberation’s chest falls, I will see all the
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towers, eventual smiles, and the glorious rain chants
on your hands. O great Mary, from your heart
corners all the dreams of rivers come and all
universes have been loved by acquainted whiteness
which cleaves the heart of grey time.
I watch your light wings and I listen to your deep
voice with cheerfulness. I see your words on the
lake’s face: “The peaceful one will defeat darkness
by every loved word." This will enliven the warmth
in the cold mountains, overspread the greenness in
the dry land, and will teach the earth the light realms
in peace.
Light Soul
When the roads open their eyes, all the blue fish will
come to my sea. The road is a smile exits its pinky ear
from that window which sleeps on my mother hands.
Without any end and without any delay, I am
disappearing with happiness in the mothers' light. My
heart, like a bird on an icy bough, will immerse in that
moment which come from their chants. At her will, I
am rivulet water, and at her gaze, I am a motionless
leaf; my love is that wind which can cross all clouds,
and that grass which hug all world goats, but the
mother light is a different world and impossible in its
oneness.
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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
pinky 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.
Southern Farmer
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.
A Farmery Heart
When that southern bird has seen our dreams, he
opened his book. He knows our farmery hearts and
his hand, which had come from the remote valley,
colors the moon face with a laugh. O. dreamy bird,
this is my farmery love sits behind my eyes. Can you
see it? Can you hear its muteness? Here is my
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pretend; a colored veil covers my fire and a shy smile
bears my coldness over warm wings.
BLINDS
The Blind World
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Here, in my crying earth, there is no rose. There is
nothing but pale faces and rhyme of 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.
Blind Winds
The 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 is 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.
A blind Man
I was traveling from desert towns with a smile in my
heart. The puzzled sea gave me an old song. He is a
memory comes from faraway lands and told us about
the adventure which had sat in our depth. He always
told me that the wind is a strange leaf misleading us
with illusions but when we sleep, we see her face
clearly. At that moment, she will show us her cold
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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
The Inchoate Secrets
I am an inchoate gale bears the blemished dreams
with small feet. My eyes are groovy like a discovery
ship and my skin is a colorless secret. When the
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sleepy leaves had seen 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.
Nonsecret Secrets
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; the south
and as well as my grandfather’s atrophy, 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
subduedness juts out from this land’s furrows as
shadows know nothing about the secrets of eternal
stories.
Streamy Secrets
Yes, it is me; a farmer from the south. My hair is
grassy like a sleepy girl and my dream is heavy like
an old train. If you touch my heart you will see the
streamy secrets and if you open my treasure you will
find the colored stones. Yes, I can escort the sunset
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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.
EARTHY TRUMPIES
Trump’s Garden
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I am neither a journalist nor a teacher, but I am a
simple farmer know many things about the colors of
the worms which live under the shade of my palm
trees. I am not the president, but Trump is the USA
president, and he should know everything about the
paleness of Albasrah’s palm trees because they say
that Trump is the last emperor. In fact, I believe in
the legends, and in the early morning I will put my
entire grandfather’s ambergris and Albasrah’s trees
with their colored worms on my head and crossing
the sea to plant them in Trump’s garden where the
air is breezy and the sun is candied.
Trump’s Earth
This is my earth, which I know its smell and taste,
but I don't know the smell of New York’s. Trump
unlike me knows very well the taste of New York,
and he may know its taste, but he can't leave it
because his roots are hugging its stones. I have roots
also, but they are so tall and embracing the entire
globe. My grandmother, Uruk, had taught the
humanity the love and writing, but now her remnants
are dry and colorless because of my flying towards
the magic Trump’s earth.
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Trump’s Land
I was born in Alhilla and I wish to see Mecca to
accomplish Alhaj. Because of this, I expect that my
tomb will be in one of them, so I love them. Trump
loves Alhilla and Mecca too, but the cause of this
love is the smell of oil in that land and not his birth
or wishing of Alhaj. Both of us; I and Trump love the
Middle East but unlike me, Trump loves the Middle
East land because he feels that these lands are his
own, and I don’t know why? But because of all of
the above, the Middle East calls itself "Trump’s
Land".
MAGIC TRUMPIES
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Trump and My Dreamland
Mr. Trump, the president of the USA, was born in
Queen, my dreamland where there were broken
lights and celestial creatures standing as a lover’s
heart with yearning and smile. In that atoll, you may
find your essence and our grandfathers’ silvery
taproot. The shore is neither faintly blue nor erratic
in its waving. It is always quiet and lovely, but I can't
see my absent childhood in its mirror. I am the war’s
son emerging from its charred fissures as a bitter
shadow. In that atoll which the immigrants told me
about, there was a tent of gorgeous warmth. "You
can't find like this hug outside, even in your earth”,
he said. In the same way by which this island steals
the hearts, she stole my soul which equals nothing in
this boaster world. I am not a dreamer man, but when
I see the awesomeness of that world I remember my
obligatory sadness and unfair floppiness.
Trump and the Fairies
I am sure that you know everything about fairies
even what they dress in the morning. From their
windows they have raised their tales and swing their
colorful ends with delight. They are unlike me
always in happiness, and always seeking the cold
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water, but I am a corner of destruction where this
world hangs my soul on a flaming corn deeply in the
seventh underneath. I will try to ask Trump to
discover my bad magic to end the life’s runaway.
And by the way I will ask him to give me a little of
fairies’ feather to light my dark days.
Trump and the Magic Garden
They said that a treasure resided in the biggest
whale’s stomach. Of course, it is neither in Alhilla’s
river, nor in the mud of The Mother’s Garden. I need
a huge number of light years to reach the periphery
of its orchard. They also said that it was hidden in
that magic garden and exactly under the brown tree.
We don't know the exact place, but I am sure that the
Trump’s CIA knows, because they know everything
even what I wear in the breezy afternoon. I am also
sure that the treasure’s jewelry, as well as our oils is
now under his hands, not because he had stood under
the rain or he had used his spade, but because of
Trump, as we know and in a simple word, is the
president of the USA.
BIRDS
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A Free Bird
I am an old farmer. I 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 will not find a place in my
skin. I am a free bird, I love the mud smell, and
because my father planted me with a wheat seed in
our small garden, I like the noon sun when it touches
my face.
The Yellow Bird
You can feel my pulse with its violet water and 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.
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The birds
Despite all of these dark clouds, and despite the
absence of simplicity behind the skyline, I still like the
sky color, and its wide space which makes you feel
that you are a light paper over the winds. The sky
despite its changeable color, it likes the simple things.
It bends to wipe a head of a wet bird. As this, as a
paper in the river, I want to live in simplicity, walking
in my town alleys with breeze jests with my deep. I
am now feeling boredom in this noisy city. The birds
are few nowadays. I was trying to plant a tree from
that type which blossoms in winter to make the birds
live with no estrangement, or in a precise words to
make myself live with no estrangement, because the
color of my county becomes so strange. The birds told
me that they are tired from waiting the runaway boats.
They were whispering in my ears that the earth
becomes red like the lipstick. Yes, the birds don't lie.
They are icy and strange creatures. Listen to their
chants which will make your soul remember the
loyalty.
