When my eyes see that whispering light, the entire hidden thoughts dance with strange shadows. You may ask about that light which penetrates my silence evenly. You may want to see my soul jumping over the grass with these shadows; you may like to know how this whispering light embodies my dreams, my thoughts and my truth? You might not know that you are that whispering light.
I am a farmer from the south where there is no light or moon. My skin is a swimming goose, and my eyes are a dawn’s waiter. But, in a hidden night, where our birds were sleepy and my father jar has immersed in its deep dream, I saw dancing light in our orchard. We have no light but that dancing light has visited us in an absent night.

I will stand in the middle of our bridge waiting your soul to touch my heart, so I can fly. Our souls’ meeting is the true land where we touch the real faces of our bodies and see the real eyes of our minds. Where our souls meet, the moments are more intense; the hands are more warm, the eyes are ore colorful and the feelings are sharper. I am sure that you understand my souls’ signs because you are a reader and y mother said that the readers are great believers. And you know my soul’s story very well because you are a writer and my father said that the writers can see the souls carefully and know their tales very well. You believe me when my fingers refer to the places of the angels in the sky because you are beautiful and the beautiful souls are angels’ friends. I am sure that you can feel the delicious breeze of the magic feather of the angels’ wings because God kneaded our souls with fragrance of his heaven. I know that you don’t believe the tongues of those who say that the world of souls should be free from the body tales because we're human and the human is always a soul, a body, and a mind.

I saw peace and love face to face. Yes, Bhubanesawr is the transfiguration of peace and love and can teach the world their songs. I am a simple man, I mean very simple and Bhubanesawr is simply penetrating, I mean very penetrating and it always leaves in you a very special memory. The friends are great, I mean so great, the people are kind, I mean so kind and the time is nice, I mean very nice. The time is very touching in Bhubaneswa; its hands are soft and warm, and it's eyes and kind and sleepy. When it walks, it walks like a queen and when it talks, it talks in melody. In the morning, it comes with pink fragrance and at evening it goes with the orange breeze. I won't forget the titian Bahanesawr.

I am from the south where sun plays Tukki and palm trees chant fine melodies but in Delhi is the enchantment. There, the enthrallment steals the hearts, so I was missing it just within two days away from it. You can imagine this unrelenting nostalgia, and the deep *******. Delhi is not just a six armed God; in fact, Delhi is an endless river of amazement, shrill yearning for grandeur and an eternal poem of beauty. It is the home of charming, and simply it is the land of winsomeness and the enthralling face of life. The awesome tall trees in Delhi add to its coffee a special sweetness, the bewitching brown marble gives its words a delicious taste and the grand old buildings colors its memory with unforgettable memories.

In the special world, everything is special; the birds are special, the flowers are special, the buildings are special and the dresses are special. In India, the faces are special, the eyes are special and the words are special. The rivers in India are special, the forests are special and the hills are special. The moments are special, the smiles are special, the glances are special and the beauty is special. India plants in your depth a special memory, creates special moments and leaves in you a special yearning. Yes, any land can be special, but India is very special, I mean magically special. Yes, in India, the special world, everything is special.

I am a Babylonian man, and here, in my depth an ancient soul. Ishtar is my eye; Gilgamesh is my ear and Uruk is my wing. Yes, I am from Babylon, so you see my skin brown like our earth, my heart white like our sun, my soul is tolerant like our palm trees and my hands are bounteous like our Euphrates. Look at my face it is expressive like the Babylonian drawing, and hear my voice it is deep like the Babylonian tales. The flowers are more beautiful in Babylon; the smiles are more beautiful in Babylon and the sun is more beautiful in Babylon. Yes, it is me the naked and pure Iraqi wishes, and a porter who left all the pain on his should, yes it is me a Babylonian man with optimist glance. Yes Euphrates, it is my eye, my glance and my dream for new Iraq, bright Iraq without wars, without wounds just flowers, love and smiles.

"I like rain because it is a portrayal of love. Its face is wet, but warm and its hand is shivery but kind. It comes at morning as an big smile with strange passion and at evening like an old tale hugs the small leaves . When we get lost in the rainy moments, we find a breeze embracing our bare souls. I can’t imagine how it will be miserable, if I can’t see rain drops’ dancing.

O Tigris, show me your bright color, because I am tired of your dark color. O Tigris love me; please make a mistake and love me for a moment. Look at me with a loving glance; a warm glance. Please leave the ****** glances; the cold glances.Your water is dusty and gloomy; please tell me why your water is dusty and gloomy. O my sad river, tell me; when will your tales end? When can we see your smiling flowers? Why your water is thirsty for your sons’ bloods; the Iraqis’ pure bloods. I am just a bird; lonely bird here, but I am always praying for a happy future for your sons; the Iraqis; please, Tigris blesses them, bless your sons; the Iraqis, please Tigris.

It is the colored world where every place has its shining color, and every time has its magic beauty. I remember very well that deep moments of the crowd road of Mumbai and the magic garden of the Ahmadabad flowers’ city. No winter in India, just warm colors in the Happy Holi, so you don’t need any things but love in this colored world where the souls had been filled with flowers and the minds had been colored with songs. The colored lights made the buildings shining as a colored bride filled with henna and the lovely dark green tress penetrated our souls without delay. I can't forget that that skyscraper which had stood in the heart of that shore where a road disappears in the times of high tide. Just in the colored world you find great love to the great persons, and just in India you find the magic fragrance of the charming inheritage. No differentiation and no fences in the colored world where the different languages disappear under the one tent and the different weathers take a beautiful tune in that colored world.

I saw peace and love face to face. Yes, Bhubanesawr is the transfiguration of peace and love and can teach the world their songs. I am a simple man, I mean very simple and Bhubanesawr is simply penetrating, I mean very penetrating and it always leaves in you a very special memory. The friends are great, I mean so great, the people are kind, I mean so kind and the time is nice, I mean very nice. The time is very touching in Bhubaneswa; its hands are soft and warm, and it's eyes and kind and sleepy. When it walks, it walks like a queen and when it talks, it talks in melody. In the morning, it comes with pink fragrance and at evening it goes with the orange breeze. I won't forget the titian Bahanesawr.

We are the brothers of suns; our winter chants have a very delicate roaring, and our mumbles have a wide love. We are the sons of old farmers know the magic tales of our rosary rivers and comb the golden braid of the sun at its smiley morning. You know; the brother is a smile, and the brotherhood is a gift so when you have a brother you will be an endless happy bird and a timeless openhanded tree. Yes, We are Iraqis; the son of  this land; the land of brotherhood; our Hilli beans inherited the magic songs from the Babylonian clayey tablets and our amber rice has learnt their peaceful colors from the white souls of our ancestors. Yes, we are the sons of the magic land but this strange world always -and without cause- trying to **** our dreams. Here, in our land, the land of brotherhood, the souls are smooth and the hearts are delicate but the roads are grey and the winds are rough because the blind world has a very black hand which don't stop the stealing of our chants. Yes, we are the endless chants and timeless songs but you should plant a red rose in your fields and  lodge wild deer in your lands to hear our magic and to see our colors.

She showed me the soul of pink flowers and the hidden colors of life, so the angels who know everything add nothing and the sorcerers who do everything do nothing. From her perfume, the world takes his meaning and the candles have no souls in the absence of her soft hand. You can’t feel the days’ pulses without her perfume and the riverbanks’ flowers can’t find their chants but in her eyes. In fact I can't continue to live in this empty desert because my horses smell her remote perfume. This remote perfume has reached me last days where I was driving my thought towards surrealistic free world. Believe me, I know that it has inspirational windows and its sky has awesome colors, but what can I do, if all my doors were stolen and all my eyes were closed by unknown?

No windows in my small house where the birds had been made of faint shadow and the rivers are laughing with tears. Our windy December has destroyed everything even my soul so I am now just a soulless apparition. Look at our trees; they are kneeling; the wind has stolen their dreams. I am a man from the south where everything is soft and bland, but the rigid hands of this windy December have scattered our girls’ woolgathering.
Here the streets are so raging, do you know why? I think you won’t know the story. 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. Yes, our December has a veil but its stormy soul destroying our dreams. Our stormy December is strange and reckless, but we love it because we are strange and reckless like it.
Yes, December is not my friend, but I see its footprints and follow them. It fills my lung with wild air; yes, our December is crazy and has so attractive eastern eyes. You may see that bough, that leaf and that very small bird; you may see them but you wont know anything about their wild souls. Our wild December is unbelievable, and it can make amazing fairies from our vanished tales.

When you go deep in your silence, there is nothing can break you but the faint sound of your days and when you read my poetry you will know that I am a farmer from the south my father has planted me with our ambergris. Yes, I am a simple farmer from the south around me a small tree, a small river and a small family. My morning is kneaded with my small daughter’s smiles, my evening is colored by my big son’s tales and my night is the glory of the soft hand warmness. When you have a family, at that time, you will see the secrets of twilight, the delicious taste of the backache and the very wide world of a small family in the south. Yes, I have a small family in a small house with a small window, but my eyes can see the beautiful night stars and my heart can touch the charming morning smiles. When you have a family, your smile will have pink lips and your work will wear a crown. Yes, my friend, when you have a family all the days will be valentine and all the times have meaning. Yes, when you have a family, there will be sadness and happiness, crying and laugh, pain and pleasure, but believe me this is the meaning of life.

We are from the East, where the desert grows in our heart as flowers and the eagles live in our minds like the canaries. We are not primitive as you think, but I think we don’t know how to play. Yes, our wells aren’t pink but at least they can hug our beautiful fish, and our children don’t know how to kiss but at least they have high kites. Yes, our Arabian scarf is so tall because our ancestors knew that we had fragile hearts, and we cry easily. You shouldn’t think that we are so sensitive or overpassionate but in fact our souls have made from chants and our ordinary speech is poetry. In fact, we are the sons of poetry, and our internal is watery like the watermelon, but in spite the pink water we have melodic sweet and when you open our hearts you will see the lyric rivers and fairies. Yes, we are brown, and our farmery hands are coarse but these hands have smooth, firing and magic touchings and our forefathers knew that we are exceptionally infatuated with beauty so they have colored us brown and not white. Here, on our Arabian skin you may see the impressions of our old lightening candles and the scratches of the long years of the hard hope. It will be so nice if you are an Arabian man, because all the melodic birds will find their ways to your stormy trees and all the farms will emerge from your deserted hand. We are from here, the stormy lands where the brook can’t be dry and the streets’ eyes are shy and attractive. It will be nice to be an Arabian man where your mouth is hidden by a grey veil, and your voice is so marginal. This world will know you very will and the pictures of your camels will appear daily in the magazines but in a silent manner and without opinion. Yes, it is very nice to be an Arabic man, because all what you can do is watching and all what your women know is silence.

When the roads open their eyes, all the blue fish come to my sea. The road is a smile exits its pink  ear from that window which sleeps on my mother hand. Without any delay, I am disappearing in its  light where the warmness wears its whit coat. My heart, like a bird on an icy bough, will immerse in that moment comes from her chant; the soul of light. My love is that wind which can bring all the sky clouds, and that grass which hugs all the world goats, but the mother love is a different world and impossible in its oneness.
When the morning’s happiness poured, and the foggy shadow secluded, at that moment I knew that the sun had a pure splendid face and the wings of light went to laugh with their full days. When the mask of darkness falls, I will see all the towers and the glorious rain chants on your hands, where the secret springs of the universe have been immersed in the dust of clayish towns and misted by their brown breeze. I saw your azure trees smiled at the waterfalls and your carnelian submerged in ice tobacco of Mashu Mountain. The white wings of your blooming spirit told the earth the tales of light which had been colored by a shawl of a girl gathering the date from her grandfather orchard. So, the mightiness of earth bends with astonishment at your old glitter and flies as spatial vehicle had seen a new face of the moon.

The grand flood was a teacher who learnt his student the secrets of eternity. Utnapishtim knew all the secrets when  the mightiness of water transfigured in front of his eyes. There are no fairies or witches on the flood but Utnapishtim realized the listen and knew the essence of life.  In front of the wide eyes of the flood, Utnapishtim built his big ship to save our life and all these smiles. Gilgamesh crossed the great sea to meet Utnapishtim, the man of the flood who told him about the plant of immortality which resides peacefully behind the wide sea.  Gilgamesh traversed the wide sea and found the eternity plant but when he entered the cold pond to swim, a snake of destiny stole the timelessness from our hands. Yes, Utnapishtim grasped the eternity because he had built a big ship while Gilgamesh lost his immortality plant because he just made a small boat. The flood has a heart, so it learned Utnapishtim the wisdom and the secrets of life while Gilgamesh’s plant has a sleepy eyes, so it chose the snake instead of us.

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.
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 our coldness.  
Our sun has a thick veil and many daughters with hard hearts; 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.

OUR MASGOUF

The fishes have high wings, but they can feel our deep pain like sisters. Yes, we are the fishes’  brothers and any halo you may see in the dark night is a birthday of this brotherhood. Come here and see the seeds of this earth in an ancient Sumerian tablet, which its recipes were shining as the sun. In that Iraqi mud, you can see the smoke of our Masgouf and you may smell its exciting flavor. It is residing in our dreams like the moon, and we delightedly disappear in its perfume with the butterflies. The face of our Masgouf is pure, and I will be so happy if you can see its chants dancing as fairies at their small riverbanks.



THE MAGIC DOLMA

The small girls in our gardens knew nothing about the flowers or their breathtaking colors, but they are so efficient in making of magic Dolma. In the morning they meet a green dove, and listen to her chants. They are soft and pure exactly as our Dolma’s smiles. She teaches our girls the art of Dolma and the secret of grape’s leaves with a smooth voice and gentle hands. This Dolma’s master is so soft and deep, and she can color the girls’ hearts with the wedding dresses.

THE KEBAB GLORY

The Iraqis can’t live without war or Kebab, and can’t smell the morning breeze without their deep voices. Our souls were kneaded with the sad Kebab’s Sumac and the tears of war. Our dreams had immersed in the Kebab’s perfume and straggled in the desert of sad Sumac. Yes, you need the Iraqi sad smiles to find the Kebab’s sublime glory.

A 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.


An Old Farmer
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 pink 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.

A Mute Farmer
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 pretend; a colored veil covers my fire and a shy smile bears my coldness over warm wings.It is me; the mute farmer.

The Soul of Light
When the roads open their eyes, all the blue fish will come to my sea. The road is a smile exits its pink  ear from that window which sleeps on my mother hands. Without any delay, I am disappearing in the mother's light. My heart, like a bird on an icy bough, will immerse in that moment comes from her chant;the soul of light. 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.


The Wings of Light
When the morning’s happiness poured, and the foggy shadow secluded, at that moment I knew that the sun had a pure splendid face and the wings of light went to laugh with their full days. When the mask of darkness falls, I will see all the towers and the glorious rain chants on your hands. O great Mary, from your heart corners all the dreams of white rivers come.I watch your light wings and see your words on the lake’s face: “The man of peace will defeat darkness by every loved word." .

The Tales of Light
Where the secret springs of the universe have been immersed in the dust of clayish towns and misted by their brown breeze, I saw your azure trees smiled at the waterfalls and your carnelian submerged in ice tobacco of Mashu Mountain. The white wings of your blooming spirit told the earth the tales of light, that had been colored by a shawl of a girl gathering the date from her grandfather garden. So, the mightiness of earth bends with astonishment at your old glitter and as a long distance which was crossed by bare feet, it flies as spatial vehicle had seen a new face of moon.

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.

Our Masgouf
The fish has wings, and she feels our pain as a sister. Yes, we are the fish’s brothers and any halo occurs in the clear night is a birthday of this brotherhood. Come here, and see the first cookbook; it had appeared with the seeds of this earth. It had slept in an ancient Sumerian tablet, which was shining as a morning sun. In the heart of (800) recipes in that Iraqi mud, you can see the smoke of our Masgouf and you may smell its exciting flavor. You may know that Masgouf had resided as a moon in our dreams, and we delightedly disappear in its perfume as the butterflies. Our Masgouf, as well as, the face of our river, is pure, but smoky, and I will be so happy if you can see its chants which dance as a fairy at its small bank. Because of this warmhearted brightness, you may like to sit under our smiley tent and musing our truthful Masgouf.



The Dolma’s Master
The small girls in our gardens knew nothing about the flowers or their breathtaking colors, but they are so efficient in making of magic Dolma. In the morning they meet a green dove, and listen to her chants. They are soft and pure exactly as our Dolma’s smiles. She teaches our girls the art of Dolma and the secret of grape’s leaves with a smooth voice and gentle hands. This Dolma’s master is so soft and deep, and she can color the girls’ hearts with the wedding dresses. My mother was a good Dolma’s student, so she had learned its chants expertly and  wore her wedding dress early.

The Kebab Glory
The Iraqis can’t live without war or Kebab and can’t smell the morning breeze without their deep voices. I am an Iraqi man, and my soul was kneaded with Kebab’s Sumac. My dreams had immersed in the Kebab’s perfume and straggled in the desert of sad Sumac. Kebab, which we inherited from our Babylonian, can’t be transfigured without a soft lap, and any saying disagrees this is a hard illusion, but essentially you need the Iraqi sad smile to find the Kebab’s sublime glory.

BLUE VOICE
I am nothing but a boat its wing has a very bewitching tales I can't tell you their secrets. When the blue voice showed me its intangible soul, all the deep whispers dissolved in my dream as a sleepy blue rose. I can tell you another mystic glance; there are fogy seas of the blue voice, and you can feel their fingers touch your depth with calm astonishment. No, I am not a sorcerer, but I am just a passenger has drowned totally in the blue.

SLIVERY VOICE
I was not a chanter, but I could not sit on our tree bough when my grandfather had used to talk about the bright birds and the lucent horses of the sliver voice. There were cities of veiled winds their whispers touch our window with a delightful smile, penetrate our depth without delay and invade our souls with a deep salute. I was just a young child, and you can't expect to find in my pocket silvery fairies but our land is the daughter of the silver voice so you always find my daily chant; "oh the sliver voice, get my whishes on your wings and shelter my dream in the delicious midday. I am just a totally compliant and smooth southern child sits on that bough with sliver chants in his pocket."

PINK VOICE
I am not platonic, but I didn't smell the sleepy flowers of the pink voice. Do you see the colored vociferous wedding? Its naked soul is a fragrance of the coquette eyelids of the pink voice. When your eyes see the momentary waves of the pink voice, at that time, you will remember my words, and you will feel hardly the remote carnivalesque lands of my dispersed corners. Yes, I didn't smell the sleepy flowers of the pink voice, but I am a southern farmer knows everything about its dreamy smiles and hidden wishes.

The Gypsy Girl

I like the 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 the 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 is flying 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 the fire for you. I will drink the river water with the birds and eat the greens with the deer. I will sleep under a tent without walls or doors. I will leave all your walls and all my closed doors for you. I will take a gypsy tent because I wish to dream at the night widely and chant at morning loudly.

A Gypsy Wagon

My grandfather had a beautiful horse with a heart filled with compassion and kindness. I didn't see her, but they said that she was legendarily clever and 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 soul. I am an Arab 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.

When we saw these colored shadows, the magic whispers penetrate us very fast, and when I kissed the lips of a strange voice, the sun lights slept in my dreams as a butterfly. Can you touch these colored shadows? Can you hear their wishes?

Do you see the lights when they glister over a quiet sea? Do you understand the snow’s twilight? Like this are the hearts of the unsleeping physician. They stand like trees but instead of leaves there are patients' faces and instead of chanting birds there are beating hearts. In that warm space, you see the flowers with colored wishes and merciful hands. There, you can touch the infinite warmth’s essence with worry eyes and hot pulses.
Instead of metaphors, the physician surprising innovation is the melodic compassion. He catches the remote lands valleys and from that magic universe, he brings a smooth management like a poet.