When your closeness read me as a shabby book, you give me a true life; the only hope. Your words are a joyful feast and a wide door that opens only with love. I almost faded as a shy ostrich. Look at my feathers It is so light, just like my heart, and look at my face, it is just a hidden history. I see the traces of your love on the face of time; it is overflowing with travelers. In your vessels the moon descends every evening, plays with the children until their eyes fall asleep. Yes, I am as far away as the stones; no water, no flowers, but your words like holidays wear me new clothes.

Whenever I want to smile, I remember the ruin in the south, and I cry. I do not want from you a hand shaking my hands, nor a chest that embraces me. I just want you to let the south smile. And let our boys fly like bright lights, and let our girls' eyes shine like a dew in the morning. I never want you to thank me for all this difficult sincerity, and all this light from my eyes in the face of the dark wind.  I do not want you to thank me for my legendary standing in the middle of the day, nothing but to tell my predecessors that I have fulfilled the covenant. I don't want you to thank me, I just want you to forget all your words in the dark and every dagger prepared before evening.

Summer is not beautiful in Iraq; it is old and it is standing on a long failure. The summer here, like me, loves watermelon, but it is a bitter love. The watermelon here is something hidden and wondrous, full of secrets and magic, and our ancestors often tell us about it strangely, until I thought that the watermelon is a mythical being. When I return from my long absence, I will go to one of the doors of my grandfather's small orchard, and I will paint a small watermelon on it and I will celebrate. I will invite all the birds of the earth to seed the grain of watermelon in the fields of the Iraqis in order to make a big celebration; it is the festivity of the great Watermelon.

I am just a sad rock on the road, but when I remember your voice, I feel the strange green and dewy touch of my skin, so I smile. I am alone, like this bitter time, and I am only good at sadness. I write to you with sadness because I am from the sad land. The roads here are sad, the stories are sad, the hearts are sad, even the smiles are sad. We are here when we write, we write with sadness, when we read, we read with sadness, when we love we love with sadness, and when we laugh, we laugh with sadness. They stole our door and stole our windows, so the sadness entered our homes with air. We have become fish that breathe sadness, and when we are born, we are born with sadness because we know that behind our stolen doors and behind our stolen windows, nothing awaits us but sadness.

I am a son of a farmer, not a son of a queen. What will happen if we exchange our destiny? But frankly, I cannot imagine myself being a son of a queen, nor can I imagine you as a farm son. So, I will rely on another way to achieve our transformation. I will go to a spiritualist friend and ask him to perform a soul transplant; by giving my body your soul, and giving your body my soul. I think after that, we'll all understand the true story.
The art and the poem by Anwer Ghani

I will stay alone here, behind the windows and behind the curtain. Yes, I will stay alone without you because I finally knew how pain is? And how love is? I finally knew how fatal it is the moment of the last separation? This is not my eyes that cry, but my heart, and these tears are the story of longing and fear. No, I don't cry, I just say goodbye to you. This is not my tears, and these are not my eyes, but the eyes of Corona. It's a great Corona; kills me slowly and robs my soul coldly. It reminds me of the cold hands; the very cold that stole my fields and our young people who fell on the sidewalk like the rest of the dream. No, I don't cry; I just say goodbye to my smiling spirit.

I will end up in love with the Tigris and the Euphrates, as both are blamed as long as they have vanished in their intense love. It is my beginning towards the heavens that I know, full of warmth, it is my stories as a waterfall kissing the rebel foreheads. Yes, that's how I learn the red chant, this is how the sky smiles for its lovers, and from there your face shines.