All moments of pain are just ways. They take my pain to a dark corner and teach it how to be familiar. Our Pain is a cool story wearing a colorful veil with astonishing twilight. No one can know the gray face of pain like the Iraqis. Nobody can play eternal absent more perfect than my land. Yes, I am from here, the land of pain. My father moaning and my mother crying.

The clamor dances like sunlight over water blown by the wind. It extracts the screams of festivals from the depth. I see how it looks, and I feel its amazing passion. Those are the places where bustle is so bright and so dark. I see it coloring the mirage space with wings and smiles lying here and there. When the lights dimmed, souls and all that clamor subsided.  Really amazing mirage, isn't it?

The Feasts are almond trees play in the field with butterflies, flying lightly with the breeze. When they tend to head of a child, they feel like mothers. Where are they now? The feasts are wide smiles and bright colors, they give you every warmth and every bright and cheerful eye. Where are they now? The feasts are dresses embroidered with flowers, boys with toys, laughing girls and endless gifts. where are they now?

Eid in Babylon sits on his high chair, on knees of snow. Grandparents smile for the beloved alleys of Babylon and overlook the mighty Euphrates. Eid in Babylon is a bright face of dawn.  Magic smiled on his hands like the hearts of the Babylonians.  These civilizations have occurred here, do you not see all these lighthouses and the sounds of eternity? Don't you see dew hearts where lovers' poems here mired in their dreams? At sunset, we will bid farewell to the spirit of rebellion. At sunset, a new Eid will be rise in Babylon.

Towards these strange dreams, toward iron waters, brown flares.  Towards the cigar of that eternal man who wore toil every morning. Towards words soaked in praise and prayer.  O thin distances, towards the chest of torn dates and bragging. O freedom, full festivities, towards dewy leaves and rain. Towards all the capitals that sit in the garden of the peasantry have traveled after the era of ice revolutions.  Do you know how wonderful it is to go towards the road and make a body that spreads in the city center between the crowded streets?

My life is not as big as our grandfather's river who tried to plant trees in his sand. Legend has it that he dug a river at the moment of migration, so he called it (huff), and because he went to the sand, his land was bare. He colored its skin with a beautiful green full of milk.  Despite all the palm trees he planted around it, you can recognize my sandy face. Now I am not in the bare land, but its dry winds color my dreams.

We sons of wars know it and know its sounds. It's a gray tale that wears a red cloak on cold nights. It steals every smiling piece, so you see nothing here but silence.  In the morning the children fill their eyes with clouds and in the evening, you can smell wailing. The cracks in our rooms' walls are like the torn souls and our wedding beds are red as the colors of our streets. Young people sit in the corners waiting for their foggy fate, and hands only know failure. Without any sin, we are sons of wars.