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)
--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)
--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.
The dawn is not colorful nor its breeze, but politics is multicolored. It's like a mysterious bird you see it green in the morning, yellow in the noon and red in the evening. He is not good at flying because he was born without wings, but he is good at jumping on the shoulders of others. The revolutionaries are not colored because they have wings and they like hope always lives in reality, but the color of politics is terrible and variable so that no one believes their words anymore, even children at school, even the fish in the river. I am not a revolutionary man, and I always try to take silent steps, but these losses, calamities and death have no other reason than the coloration of politicians.
The streets are narrow here in the city where I live, and the houses are very simple as small wishes. Yes, I live in a small town and after every Friday afternoon there is a demonstration, but the streets are narrow and the birds here have gray eyes and hearts, and the windows don't know the light. I like the demonstration not because it is a beautiful face of freedom but because it is a living thing and has been banned in my country for decades. You know; Friday is a feast here and many people like to spend the afternoon in the central square under the sun on a clear and noisy day in a small town that lacks a children's playground, amusement park or wide streets; nothing here but narrow spirits.
I did not discover the parliament, and I did not have that wide boat that can carry the galaxy, I just learned to live honestly and I have a small mirror where I can see my image. In recent years, they have planted a parliament in our land, and the ancestors said it was a good plant similar to the wheat; it doesn't know to lie. We did a celebration and create a beautiful and large building to the parliament, and I was told that they brought a different mirror that could show things for what they were, I mean a true mirror. No one knows who brings that mirror, but a parliamentarian on a rare occasion said that the mirror is a magical spirit made by the wishes of our people, but at the end of his speech he smiled invisibly when a reporter asked him about his image in it. I think parliamentarians see the truth but forget it.
Yes,, I am an inspiring poet because I am the son of wars; my torn pocket carries nothing but weep. How can I not be a poet; I mean a sad poet while our poets are the heirs of the broad pains; I mean the heirs of wide ruin? I will draw a painting, and of course it will be without a smile because I am the son of wars. I will look at a woman and I love her, and of course my love for her will be without flavor because I am a sandy ghost the wars have stolen his face. S o I will try to write a poem; I mean I happy poem but I cannot be happy, not because I chose this but because I am from this land; the land that knew nothing but war and tears. Look at our flowers; they are dead; look at our river; it is dry and look at my mouth, it does not know smiling.
My heart is very shining, not because of its soft whiteness but because of all those young dreams which have been melted in my stony chest. I tried, like any shaded tale, to hide my dead flowers with a torn cloak, so they can't see any picture of a living fragrance; I mean the fragrance of the remote lands. Here, in my heart, you find all the naked wishes that cover her nakedness with a cloak; I mean the worn cloak. Yes, I am a scarf man; my water is dark and all these cloaks cannot hide my grief. Yes, I am the naked man, and it is not strange to see my feet immersed in every futile story. I am the mantle of sorrow; my land is only a legendary face of crying and my women are nothing but faint boats.
They are pure spirits; they are pure spirits. We encountered them at the fields. Do you remember them? They are pure like light. They are innocent spirits. They are innocent spirits. We saw them streaming gently. Do you remember them? They are as innocent as the river. At that time, they were loving; light and river. Uh, the light and the river were lovers, at that time.
It's morning. It's morning. It's the beautiful morning sun. Do you remember it? When the light and the river were two lovers. It was painting her whispers on our cheeks; O purity; O innocence; when the river and light were in love.
We have a thick curtain that was inadvertently colored by lost moments. She, without delay, comes in the evening with strange winds to comb our coarse hair. In fact, I cannot distinguish her from our faces nowadays and because of this confusion I sometimes think she is my mother. She stands there to reduce the sound of the noon sun; I mean the burning sun, and to bring back some of our lost consciousness, but because of its redness, she always remembered the sad stories of lost life; I mean the tales of war.
Our palm tree is as beautiful and scary as the princess. Her eyelid is longer than of the river and her veil has brought the lives of our ancestors to displace our narrow dreams. I can feel her wavy pulse and I can see her charming smile behind her shawl. Near her feet, there is a fountain of magical water, and next to her wishes I see my face stolen as a yellow bird. I want to tell you that her magical veil is unable to hide her soul, and despite its stunning colors, it cannot hide her shiny fingers.
Have you heard about Sumac? Yes, it is purple, but it is stinging because the beautiful southern nights kissed its lips. The fish love Sumac because the Euphrates carried it on its back for many years. Sumac is so Iraqi so its spirit is kneaded with war stories. Did you know that Sumac and despite its sadness, it indulges in the fragrance of celebration, just like our streets.It is the son of the desert and like our daughters; the daughters of the desert always dream of days without smoke. We inherited Sumac from our Babylonian ancestors who made it with smoky tears, so you need an Iraqi smile to see the splendor of its glory.
I was told that Paris is a beautiful city and has a colorful spirit, so from childhood I dreamed of slapping my brown face with its white clay but I am a wild leaf knows nothing about beauty or artists and all I know are dry fields. Here, in my broken box, nothing but a pale shadow with a faint spirit walking between woods with a hidden face; I mean a very hidden one. When dawn opens its eyes, I hear our birds sing in a faint voice, and when the evening closes its eyes, I see our moon without love, so how can I walk in the bright streets of Paris?
Believe me, I can feel the splendor of life, yes I can, and deeply feel the smile of my lover. I have family and children, and like you, I love coffee and eat eggs and cheese for breakfast. I am a farmer from the south and all I carry in my pockets is orange. I love poetry very much, and I love drawing a rose, a palm tree and a bee. I am a Muslim man, I love peace and am not a terrorist as you think.
The leaves of the trees are green, but we cannot hate the purple, it is also beautiful, symbolizes warm life and holds hope for the future. We are mere navigators but we cannot assemble all the violence to release a rose; the red rose does not need blood. Just look at the lovers; they have a colorful bouquet that teaches us that the colors are wonderful. The colors of flowers and lovers' bouquets tell us that multiple colors are not barriers. You can take a look at the multiplicity of bird sounds; it tells us that our word is wide. Look at our various words, our various choices and our various tastes, it's different as our skin colors; they teach us the beautiful mosaic of our existence. All I can say is that: our skin colors are not barriers; they are beautiful flowers.
I am an Eastern man and as a human being I have a feeling so I love the sun and as you I have beautiful dreams, but I am not from the West so you do not want my friendship and do not show me your love. Yes, I am very Eastern, and my father is from this land and has a headband, and my grandfather has a thick woolen cloak but this is not an excuse for you to prevent me to visit New York or walk on Brooklyn. We are farmers and know the gaze of the birds and understand the words of water and the moon has a lovely tales in our memories and we can also make coffee and tea and for this I do not see any reason for you to sit there on that hill and close your windows in waiting for the rain to make me leave from the street in front of your house. In fact, I do not see that I am a very primitive creature as you think and the veil worn by my mother is like the green leaves embracing a white rose in the morning which blooming easily in the evening in her loving garden. My friend, I know that I am a farmer from the east; my heart is full of love and light, but some eyes are wearing black glasses.
The sun has a thick veil and many girls with stiff hearts. I saw many of them walking in our streets, but the strange thing is that they are colorless and very cold. Imagine that the sun girl has no color and no warmth. Everything under our sun is cold even our summer, even my love for you. The evenings which travel through amber are simply eternal cold losers, I mean eternal heroes who build his free glory over my back. Please do not ask me about the wheat spikes and the braids of the young girls because in addition to their cold faces, the wind has brought them to an unknown place.
My friend is very polite and always tries to drink clean water, but unfortunately, we are in the same cold darkness. It is an early death, Oh the unfortunate humanity. Place, uh place, how lonely you are? looking for the remnants of a human being. Why should this happen? I am a man of the 21st century and my days soaked in mud as an old cow. I don't like the cold sound, but my days are damp like a woman's coat and my heart hangs on absent trees. My friend, you may see sunrise cheers, but the real face of all these fantasies, is the cold darkness. So, don't try, you won't find clean water here.
This coldness is one of the beautiful pages I have met in my difficult life. It goes deep into my dreams and makes an ice shadow from my heart. It steals every possible warmth from my bag, so I'm still happily standing under that tree as a wet bird. This beautiful cold deliberately cuts my skin with its hidden knife, and breaks my face like the water of a frozen lake. This coldness kills my dreams every night and slaps my face every day, so you see flushing on my cheek every morning. It's not a lover's kiss or a pink rose, it's just a cold slap.
The man of greatness saw a great land, a great life, and a great death, but I am just a forgotten tale and I need a brave poet with a magic boat to discover me. Here, in my land there are no poems, so you can depict the intensity of smoke in a land where there are no poems. Our homes are completely different from scented houses and the women here can afford nothing but sad hearts. The grass here is different, and if the poets see the grass in my land, they will change their idea of life. Yes, we're the sons of houses that don't have doors; I mean the doors of life.
Little by little, the water is getting warmer, and the fish have dreams of flying. Do you see these birds? Just look at their eyes; they little by little became more affectionate. Little by little, I began to walk towards you as if you are this broad horizon to fade in you with love. Look at the sand; it is no longer dry; it becomes a story of amazing greening. Little by little, everything becomes different; little by little, I began to get warmer and little by little, you become warmer.
I cannot read Whitman's poems, because Whitman's eyes that saw glory are monopolized by the distant hands. Like Whitman, I think human spirits are miracles, but those beautiful miracles are monuments I have no right to touch. Here, is the life where there is no grass, and its naked child cannot stand to see the sunrise. Look, I'm sure; if Whitman is alive now, he will cry bitterly, forget his thirst for eternity, and call for the freedom of humanity. I know that the human spirit is a great world and that great desire will not die, but our lives have become shadows that do not see pain. O Whitman’s sons, I feel pain, can you hear me?
Yes, I'm a farmer from the south; my hair is grassy like my sleepy sunset and my dream is slow like an old train. If you touch my primitive heart you will see flowing secrets, and if you open my wooden treasure you will find colored stones. Yes, I can accompany the sun smiles and pick up the pink roses but I don't know anything about their songs. Now, I'll tell you a secret; don't love a farmer from the south, because his feelings are always ablaze and his passion is volcanic all the time.
You know very well the splendor of life near a river. As the morning begins its journey, the squirrel cautiously jumps through green songs and all flavors take their azure veil. There, near the river, the flowers, the women, and the old farmers know the stunning colors. Near the river, the thin dreams wearing their blue dresses, and the delicate whispers make a passionate cake with early dawn smiles. The moment is absent tales without the passion of the river, and the places are just dry deserts without its blue colors. Through its very hidden secrets, we see an unforgettable memory and from his hidden desires, we write poems in fine letters.
The sea has a legendary story that penetrates our depths with its stormy love. It paints our world with its unique flavor, and gives life its pungent taste. Its gaze steals the hearts that yearn for it, so they swing like the ships that the waves take away. The sea is our wavy essence, and its wind is a free woman with a charming blue robe. The sea is very soft, but it is violent and leaves no story for the trees, but as you see I sit behind these trees to see the glory of the sea, and melt in my wavy words: "Everything has a rebellious spirit, even you, even me."
Our river flowers always try to paint the feminine looks that teach the world its wonderful existence and give life a wonderful love. When days try to sing with their beauty, they are embodied in the magical songs of our flowers and when the rainbow wants to wear their bright colors, it will take a flavor of our beautiful flowers. The magical lands cannot find their wonderful smiles only on the faces of our river flowers, and the wind cannot find the beautiful dew without whispers of our magical flowers.
I'm so sorry, I can't love you because I'm just a faint residue. I can't love you because I'm from here; from the sad land. Yes, you have a very beautiful voice, but I can't love you because I am a man who can only cry. Believe me I can’t love you because I cannot smile in the morning, and I will fail to whisper at night. You see; I'm just a blind shadow so I can’t love you. I am a sandy man and son of the desert, so I can’t love you. I'm the heir of wars and red tales, so I can't love you. I'm from here; the dry land, so I can't love you.
I remember the white cheesecloth of my grandmother by which she was making cheese from milk. In fact, I liked that barrier, cheesecloth, because I didn't like milk and I was liking cheese, and because it's real and white, but you see the barriers these days; it's red and dark. Yes, they are, like my heart, bitter, dark and full of lies.
I am an Iraqi man whose life was postponed and his face was stolen by wars. My voice is faint like a shadow and the clothes of my dreams are so short like my laugh. I know nothing about beauty or love, and I know nothing about the Detian Waterfall. Believe me, I don't want a colorful hat or a golden watch. all what I want is to see Euphrates live a day without blood, and the shells leave the broken ribs of Babylon. My friend, when you visit my garden, you will only find sad flowers and you will only see a stolen life.
I am the son of war; my memory is kneaded with its hard dances, and my heart is colored with its dark spirit. When our tales end at its cold knees, you will find me in its smoky corners with a terrifying shiver. Look at my water, it's ***** and look at my future, it's just ambiguity. I'm a good son, so I'm its mirror. I can make all the morning flowers torn, I can drink all the cow's milk savagely, and I can destroy all the magic souls in the cedar forest. Here, in my chest, a legendary loss that destroys the entire beautiful mirrors, and a wide pain that kills the dreams of the moon.
Do you see all these amazing colors in the beautiful sky? They are just unique smiles of our love. There, I saw my soul delighted near a bank of a colored river on its head a very green hat, above which was a loving nest. Yes, our love is a green treasure, I have seen it before the sunrise and before the wedding of the trees, so all our affectionate glances are Valentine's moments. From our timid whispers, the birds learned their songs and from our soft touches, the sunsets took their silk clothes. And from our secrets — which I am not told — the evenings have learned every intimate and warm story.
My days are like my poems; gray and tasteless. They often asked me to throw them from over the bridge, but I was an old lover who could not drink his coffee without passion. They have wide hearts, just like the big cows I have seen in the old city, and without any delay, I have faded into their very watery souls. Those souls, which you may see in the old mirrors, can say nothing but silence because they are, like my land, do not know anything about love. So I will bring a jar of smiles to color their gray face.
Our days are full of surprise, as all the happy springs are overflowing from their amazing fingers. I am not water, and I cannot sleep in the hearts of these springs, but the freemen made houses of love for birds that know nothing but the morning songs. They are smooth creatures, and there is only light in their hearts so they are always shining and from their journeys, the beginnings have begun. Their hands are silver and you can see their golden chants lying safely on our land where the lovebirds stand under our smiling trees and give me an unusual kiss.
I love rain because it is a wonderful portrayal of love. Its color is wet but warm, and its hand is shivery but nice. He comes in the evening embracing the old tales of small papers with great passion. When we are lost in our rainy moments, we find a breeze embracing our bare souls. I can’t imagine how miserable it would be if I could not see the dance of raindrops. They fill me with joy and give the trees new bright faces and make an unforgettable picture over our old window.
I will yearn for those moments that go deep inside me and pre-announced a love that does not waver. I am the son of the rain, and you know the rain is nostalgia tears descend amid the noise to revive the lands of our depths. I am not an immortal shadow, nor a tale of a legend inherited from my ancestors; I am just a raindrop descending before sunset with all love and with all longing. So I remember how the sky rose, and looked at her sister; the earth with all love and all longing, and silently sending kisses over wings of the wind, but when its nostalgia overflowing, her eyes flood with rain. Yes, rain drops are tears of silent longing.
My grandfather had a beautiful horse full of kindness. I did not see it, but they said it was brave. May be my family owned a saddle; I do not know and I did not ask about it, but I think if we had one, it would be closed like our desert. Yes, I am an Arab man and you know that there is nothing here but the desert, so I decided to bring a Romany wagon cart to my house to teach my children freedom.
I'm not a gypsy, but I was seriously thinking of living in the woods without a cook or a conditioner, just firewood, and if you do not agree, I'll leave the firewood for you to set the fire as you wish. I will leave all the walls and the doors for you to remain isolated. I will drink river water with birds and eat grass with deer. I will sleep under a gypsy tent because I hope to dream at night with a wide dream, and laugh in the morning loudly.
If Friday has a face, it will be as friendly as my grandfather's face. And it will be smiling like a morning bird and it will be as silvery as the color of our ancient wooden bridge which is very wonderful in transferring us to the other bank. I am sure that I will see all hidden love in its eyes and hear from it unforgotten tales. Uh, if I could see it once; once only, then I will kiss it deeply and hug it strongly and tell it the secrets of the universe which my mystical heart has been learned from our ancestors. Then I will know the ways of heaven and the forms of deep prayer that attract the eyes and reach light without delay. And I will celebrate as if I am a newborn baby, with a strange purity like deer playing near a quiet lake, and geese spreading their wings for the morning.
I will smile this morning, because its sun reminds me of your brightness, its birds remind me of your greeting and its flowers remind me of your smile which plants in me every beautiful hope. I will smile this morning strongly, as if I see it for the first time, and as if I will live it forever, because it reminds me of your glances, your tales and your whispers. Do you feel this breeze? It reminds me of you. Do you see those orange autumn leaves? they remind me of you. Do you touch these dreams which have been hung on the wall of our home? they remind me of you. Oh, dear lost happiness for years; please come with your lovely smile; come with your precious fragrance. Please the lost happiness; come up even once; even for a single false time to remember that I am still alive.
Please hold my hand, hold it tightly, I want to feel something warm, I am tired of coldness in this world. Imagine me a bird and catch me strongly, imagine me a flower and catch me strongly or imagine me what you want but what is important is to hold my hand strongly, I really need your warm hand to feel that I am still alive and not frozen. Please hold my hand warmly, hold it deeply; hold it lovingly. I am a cold shadow thirst for warmth, depth and love. I am an absent tale on a lost paper need warm fingers to find their lines. Please hold my hand to celebrate and light a candle in my cold nights.