My life is simple, not winter grapes, very juicy and fragrant, like the daughters of the Temple of Enlil, but my life is a brown heart is full of sand.  I remember very well when my Martian friend landed on it, with a wagon made of wood of the Enkido Door, which he brought to us from the cedars. I told him, "I admire the way the houses are being built there. There are no roofs and no grudges." Martians are not like us. Their hearts hung in the sky. He told me about his ancestors that they drank the luminous Honey of Paradise. They would go out early in the morning in search of warmth, as winter butterflies fall asleep in the hands of hard workers. Times were magical, I remember well that Mars Alley brightly colored, as if you were looking at an ornate Indian party and that man sitting amongst the colorful trees with branches, with a hat made of snow, was telling stories of paradise to children, at that time I knew that we are not the only ones in history and civilization.  I asked about his age and he was said to be a million years old, but it was strange that he was full of youth, and I also asked him about his name, which I forgot now because I was fascinated by those moments in which we were laughing out loud.

It's a city combing its hair in snow, what a sleepy city. Despite what has been said about its great glory, and that the evenings are as smooth as silk, her eyes are still damaged, and these brown birds are lost as an innocent soul in their small evenings. As a child, I remembered what was happening, the pain was pouring out like rain, dreams were buried under the absence. Wait a while, maybe it wants to tell you something, why don't you listen, why don't you care about the pain on your face, who will know? Who will find out? Is this pain does not end?  Maybe it wants to ask you something, I see its corners shameful, leaves falling here and there, and snow pouring from it.

The colors, the colors, the colors are stories and spaces. Did you not hear? How to deepen in the spirit of this coldness? Is all this to absence gaze? How amazing is this absence, of these edifices and flowery speech, all of this for the love of absence?  O the tender fields, I am blind, I cannot see, the narrator has soft hands. When I wake up in the morning, only sounds of absence, when I see smiles, nothing but faces of absence.  When I talk about a dream, trains of absence pierce my ear. O secrets, O strange stories, here are delightful birds, fish, and flowers, oh weird world, when will I end up with you, I hope I know.

I remember very well that inspirational souls, because the earth does not forget those who try to save the dreams. They are really original and really creative. You can see their eyes shine and dream, oh, it's unbelievable, and I can't forget their jewels that never change over time. They shine like the moon, and their words are gemstones, and their voices leave unforgettable feelings deep in you. I hope to spend the remaining days with the free revolutionaries and martyrs where peace is complete.

The love that the tumultuous lover failed to create is the cause of all this hot flux, perhaps he should revise his tune. What we see in his promises is just glamor. I always told him to break free from tumultuous love. I told him that evening, and I was very serious; messing with bright promises is frightening. In fact, he knew that his tumultuous love made him a weightless ghost. It's now motionless and feelingless, and you can imagine what the bustle would be without the flavor of excitement. Yes, you can imagine that; It's really a strange thing.

When we left the icy land to drown in the scent of the bustling city, the streets were rippling with hearts stealing. There is no quiet in the bustling city nor winter, so there is no place for any cold word or heavy souls. Everything here smiles, the eyes are filled with incense and colors, and mouths have hymns. In the sweet moments here, you can't find anything but amazing moments and deep stories. Colorful lights paint the walls and cheeks and bloom with henna on the hands. I cannot forget that tree-covered road caressing our heads and the skyscraper that stands at the heart of an enchanting beach.

The sky is beautiful and soft. And I'm not telling you a secret, I just want you to look at it. The distances on my back, I dedicate them to the wind, to soften them a little.  They told me they were preparing to cause wounds to shut up. It is not at all strange for this resounding voice. It doesn't matter at all that you look at your feet, but look at the sky a little. It is not inspiring to sit on the hill while you are too far away.  Raise your head a little, the sky is beautiful, look at it; look at it even a little.

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.

How can I describe all this? Strange longing? Curious passion? Laughs, uh of those laughs, when the moon lights fell between our eyelids. And whispers, uh of those whispers when the scarce voice touches our cheeks. The moments were fast, and we called them: Wait, wait a little; our hearts are still young and dewy.  How am I describe that for you? I cannot. But repeat what the cloud said to you one day, what we understand and what we do not understand. Yes, there are moments that we do not understand, and feelings that we do not understand; the unusual moments and unusual feelings.

You might think that I came from the heart of the sun and from the eyes that color songs. You might think that I came from a land of great wishes and pleasant endings. You are wrong, my friend, you are very wrong, yes, this land is dignified, but on its back, the dreamy feet walk. I came from the land of dreamers, where the eyes are dreamy, the tongues are dreamy and the faces are a dreamy. I came from the land of dreamy words, dreamy smiles and dreamy promises. The flowers here are dreamy, the butterflies here are dreamy, the rivers here are dreamy, the trees here are dreamy, even the birds here are dreamy. Very simply, I am a dreamer who came from the land of dreamers, where traitors stole our dreams.

I tell you honestly; I am only good at talk with my trees. But don't worry, you don't get bored of amazement, I'm a very magical box, awesome, and weird. Of course, I am not blind as you think, but I do not see all this glory and this sparkle in your samar, I only see a stone and a faint word for the cold moment. Hurray, hurray, my beautiful life. This is the trunk of absence; it is intense and black and it destroys the stories of my grandparents coldly. These tales tell me what they saw shadows when their nights were immersed in the water of samar. Oh, how long my soul yearns for samar; a warm talk in the lovely evening.

You know that the florist came to us from unforgettable lands, so of course you can sing with me, because I am still immersed in the colors of flowers, and make a great love. I still dance lightly, and I'm still stuck on our train that we met, although I know the colors of flowers and the sounds of birds, but they can only sleep next to this warm patio. Here we celebrate and say we are satisfied. This is strange, because we know that the eyelids, lips and everything can touch us in the warm evening or warble in the early morning, it can only gently touch the depth and can only pass through the florist.

I have a salty bird; it never tires of trying to fly because it has been without wings since its birth. It is antique, deep and subtle, and in the afternoon, it knocks on the windows of the village as if it were an old tale. You know that I'm not a rebellious man and I always try to walk beside the wall but my bird has a zealous spirit and soon fades in the love of freedom. How I wish I were like my bird; something yearns for fade in the truth.

When I came back, I didn't find those songs, and didn't find the lake of goose, but she quickly whispered from there: "Smile, smile, here will you find your story". Yes, purple roses here and you too. The mirrors are full of possible songs and possible longing. The birds know, the rivers know and I know too.  Yes, it is the moment we know; the moment that need warmth and hug.

Surprisingly, I can no longer sail in the Euphrates, nor can I find a vehicle in my blood to love the sun.  My mouth turns in the amidst of the words and freedom flows from my ears like ants. I fade at a strange speed, as a lover brings longing behind, so no eye can see. Look at my dreams; They are made of rusty nails that know nothing of civilization. Look at my eyelids, they are rainy leaves, made of sorrow of a tired cane with crusted feet in the mud. In the arms of this bitter sailing, I can barely distinguish the face of the Earth from parts of my dream. Yes, I will have marine stories when I talk about the bitterness inside me.

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.

Yes, I will melt in love with you like the holidays in my country, without delay or postponed words, because love does not know faded songs or fake looks. It must be a beginning, a rebirth and a sound that refreshes sunken souls, separates the marble heart and strikes the rock until the unforgettable hope lights up.

My knee is heavier than rust, this is no longer a secret, I am a very frozen old fighter. I am not happy, but I know that I am something special, because I am neither iron nor cruel, breezy nor whispering, I am really something very unknown. I can't catch up the sky's eyes and fish tales I can't figure out. My forehead clings to the ground with joy which beats me with strange moments and strange signs, surpassing me with all strength to tell you that fish has a dream and prayers. How embarrassed me this lack. I am ready for what I feel, just give me enough opportunity because I am flooded with apologies and appeals.

Oh, Cedar, how many aspirants loved you and the immortal Gilgamesh knew how to write you a poem. I am from the distant cities, where the sun is without robe and no eyes, only a story of waiting and something of an ancient fragrant. I am an old traveler, I learned the trip by accident. I also tell you that I am a small sailor and inherited the sea song from my grandparents. The hard wave I will know its desire. I will know it, and I will keep a little silent, so I may remember something. Yes, I will wait as a cedar tree overflows with returnees.

Although they have always said that my lands are a marginal creature and a ghostly thing with no rights, it is strange that I see their photos every time and my days are madly filled with news about them. At breakfast, at launch, at dinner, and when I went to sleep, there are pictures of them, but you should know that their photos gave my life meaning because they always said that I am something extra and I shouldn't see my face in the mirror but they indicate my presence even with hate style, so I would like to thank them for their hatefulness because the world remembered that there was something that could be forgotten living with the pain under the sand of this eastern lands where all world wars played. I'm not a new legend, but this world has smashed my face and forgotten all its hateful plays on my back.

Here, I am from the history of the deaf rock feeding on every possible cruelty. Here, I am waiting you without tears to see shining and tale. Let it come, an unforgettable time, let it come. Love has a memory that does not know absence or death. Here, I am learning messages without sound, here I am learning the desire of things. I knew that waiting for you is a postponed life, and that the face of the water is a mirror of all truth. I will be pure with full force, yes, I will be so freely with freedom. Wait for you something happy.

I am not very good at telling stories; I mean the beginnings and whatever you wish. I am never good to be a love or a butterfly, I am just a tear on the road. When the sun hears my chants, it will stain the streets with yellow tears, and when I love you violently, I will fade away like the summer nights. It's me, with all the power, with all the violence, but don't expect that I'm going to tell stories because I'm just a whisper and a tear on the road.

I am a sunny man, I don't know mystery, and I don't need to sit on the hill to be a flag. Very simply, I like that I can count my fingers, and I like that I am very forgotten and that I am very invisible, like the stories of my grandmother. If you know how much we have hidden in the secrets of our land, and how many strange lines amber streaks on my cheeks. Just if you knew, then all those strange stories would reach your heart before dawn and before any sleepy kiss. We are warm farmers rocking like Autumn leaves falling over the dewy grass with love. Yes, we are forgotten farmers who love to drown in the cracks of this earth as an eternal story.

I am just a small piece of paper carrying a colorful dream on small hands and young feet. My eyes are very wonderful like a migratory ship and my skin is a mystery, and a colorless puzzle. When the quiet clouds saw my plane, madly melted in silence. Please, this is my postponed life. It is the beauty of my lost love. Yes, I am a small heart, so you see my words roll freely and madly.

I was traveling in the desert cities with a smile in my heart. The puzzling sea gave me an old song. It is a memory coming from faraway land told me about the adventure that sat in our depths. It always told me that the wind is a strange leaf that misleads us with delusions, but when we sleep, we see its face clearly. At that moment, her cold stories will show us. I am not a big bluffing mirror, but I feel like I'm a colorful shade looking for a unique flower, and when I find it, it says: Student, sometime you need to be blind to see clearly. I hear her voice, and I see her face in my heart, because I am a blind man.

The winds have seen all the beauty on the banks of rivers, but they cannot understand the causes of salt in our waters. They can see our lake but there are no beavers in it because of these salty souls that drove them to flee. The butterflies told me about their magic amazement and love, but believe me I can only see salty souls eating my boat.

My skin knows no light and I can see cold bars and prisons for our walls. Here, in this cold world, you cannot see my coffee-filled trees; my coffee and my words, but when we go back to our depths, we will find the bright fragrance. I remember my sorrows because they filled me with warmth in this cold world. I remember the face of the lake and the geese, and I remember all that to **** this foreignness and this coolness in this big prison. I am not a prisoner in the rubble; I am just a free bird with a wet heart capable of love in this lonely life.

Our times are always alone and our birds are pale, so all our nights tremble and all our flowers cannot speak loudly, but in the midst of this coolness, I can hear the ocean, and its soul color my heart with the beauty of blue warmth and because of this; fish love to call me "the man of the ocean."

Here, on my earth you see no rose; there is nothing but pale and rhyming faces of pain. You see no eyes but the empty sea, and here you can feel the cold hands of the world as it knocks on our door in a frightening night. O cold world, I can't see your heart or your eyes. I remember when you told me about colored trees but when I put my head on the pillow your red hand knock in the cold nights so I see our lost children and their sad morning shed in the waterwheel.

I am a farmer from the south with nothing in my pocket other than oranges. Look at my face, it is brown and look at my hands, it is white. I am from here from the south; an oriental man with a dreamy soul. Yes, I am a dreamer from the south. My heart bears only simple love and my mouth is always smiling.

The days are hidden, and despite their wide illusions, the rain has touched my dewy skin, so I came out of their fields like moss with a sterile and blind crutch. For ages, I have been chanting dark and sad love for the sun. For ages, I have been sailing in my absent memory; the remains of this terrible wreck.

When the roads open their eyes, all the sympathetic fish will come to the sea. You can't imagine the way of the smile comes with pink flowers tweeting near that window which sleeps on my mom hands. Without any end, I feel hidden happiness in the light of my mother.  My heart, like a bird on an ice branch, and in my opinion, I am a leaf without movement. But my love is that wind that can cross all the clouds, and the grass that hugged all the goats in the world, but the love of the mother is a different and impossible world in a unique way.

Here are soft hands, just like cream, and this is not because of smooth skin, but rather their big hearts. They gladly engage in our deep sense as the old nobles, and with their smile bring every possible pleasure. From these colorful waterfalls, intimacy takes on its beautiful dress, and the breeze learns its passion. You can find the same kindness in coffee perfumes, in forest birds, and in garden flowers, but it's totally different when you see the glory of kindness in the eyes of lovers.

Your braids are a breeze in which votes are lost. Your fired doors were stolen by ice, and your beautiful legs, like pines, were frozen in the north. Your chants are thorny, and your heart's eyes are white with sadness. O Hard sand, give my mouth a fired candy, as freedom does not know cold lips.

I asked every rose in our garden and every tree near our house to tell you frankly: Every year I love you more. Today, in this charming morning I spoke seriously with the sun, and we decided to tell you one fact: Every year I love you more. It is the last night of December and this year has passed with a great memory, but what I really remember are our moments where I love you more. Now, on this silent night, near our little fireplace, specifically in this intimate winter moment, I listen well to my coffee and remember every word of it and how it tells me to give you a big hug and tell you strongly: Every year I love you more and more.  When I sit next to you, I love you more, and when I travel across faraway lands, I deeply feel that I love you more.  When I talk to you, I love you more, and when I remember your words, I love you more and more. In fact, every day I love you more, and every year I love you more.

I met an old friend in the dream and his hand was warm, not because of fever but because of his love. You cannot imagine the effect of flowers and friend in a dream. You may not know that our dream is the only place where we can see white birds and trees smiling because it is rare to see a smile in my city where the souls are dark like deformed wood, but our dream always smiles to us as a mother.

It is the same sad December every time in Iraq, no change, no hope. Really sad thing.
--What I wrote in December 2017
You sit there, on that branch with my dream, but I cannot see your beauty because my eyes are soaked in the redness of December. I am a red man from the land of wars; my blood is shed and my soul is broken. No flowers here, no spring, only red December.( From " Red December" poem)
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--What I wrote in December 2018
These streets have been made by the rough fingers of our December where the nights are weepy, and the moons are colorless. You can’t see anything here in December just violent and shameless faces. ( From " Stormy December" poem)
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--What I wrote in December 2019
I freeze; but I do not freeze because the snow plays with my nose and cheeks, but rather because the New Year's tree has become red like the streets of my city and the New Year's party cups are full of tears of our mothers. ( From " Crazy December" poem)

The ancestors used to say that life was a moment and imagine how it would be if its color is orange; the eyes are orange, the lips are orange and the dresses are orange. The orange color has been so burning. so the Asian tribes often raise them over their mountains. It is warm but dewy like the spirit of the sunset which grabs our hearts with its soft passion, so you can not see here only dewy flowers. Yes, the sunset is an inspiring visitor; its glorious breeze knocking on our doors every day, but as you know I am a peasant from the south; my heart is very thin, but it knows nothing about the amazing orange color.