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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

Have you seen the distant islands, fairies Islands? Yes, I know, you did not see them because you are, like me, not a poet; only the poets can see the remote islands; the islands of fairies.
Have you ever seen the truth face to face and given you a smile? Yes, I know, you did not see it because you are, like me, not a poet; only the poets can see the truth and pick up its smiles.
Have you ever been able to see your soul being stripped in a vast light where shadows swim, faint shadows growing within you an unforgettable ecstasy? I know, you never could see your naked soul, and you do not hint at those shadows, or that great ecstasy because you are, like me, not a poet; only the poets can see the naked spirits, their shadows and feel their exaltation.
Have you ever sat on that brown hill above the moon and looked at the earth, every part of it, every laugh? every look: every whisper; as if you were looking at a nut? I know that you never sat down and did not look at any part of the earth or any laugh, any look or any whisper on it because you are like me, not a poet; only the poets can reach the moon and sit there above their brown hills. They are the only ones who can see every part of the earth, every laugh in it, every look of love and every whisper of passion.
Have you ever written a charming poem? I know you did not write such a poem someday, because you are, like me, not a poet; only the poets can write a charming poem. Believe me, to see beauty honestly and honestly describe it and to see truth honestly and honestly tell it, you have to be a poet.

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.

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.

I'm not a wild flower, and not like Gilgamesh who came after a long journey to rest and took a tablet of lapis lazuli to write down all his magical adventures. I just want you to be my friend to love you deeply and miss you violently. The summer sun in Iraq is crazy so be my friend so that our sun wears a blue scarf. Be my friend so our morning will have a different smile, the moon has a different tale and the summer has another taste. Be my friend and the nights will have a different feeling, and our talks will have another meaning. Just be my friend and you will see how the celebration will begin.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

What do you think these buds dream of? I mean the boys of my village. Do they dream of an abloom flower, of a colorful bird, of a warm kiss? Or do they dream of war, of ruin, of the blind smoke that you breathe out of your bitter mouth as a snake, like a black predator monster? O the black earth. Please enough for being a predatory snake, enough for your bitter absence, enough for this cruel cold. I am really tired of your deserted color, your deserted mouth, your deserted words. Think for a moment, what do you think your children are dreaming of my village children? Look at their dreams with love. Stop your hardness. This palm, your palm do you see? They have become bitter grief. And this amber, your pride, do you see it? It has become a dismal mirage.
O country of killed dreams. Repeatedly and I see you crush my dream with your cruel feet. Repeatedly I say to you that you do not know the art of dreams, the art of love. Go out of the orchard of my grandfather with no sorry and look for another dark place like your soul. Get out of Iraq, let him smile; remove your poisoned nostrils from its bleeding waist. O land of despair. Now I will leave with all my love, and I will die gladly, so that I will not see your ugly face your bitter face. I will always cry for my soul, the soul of Iraq, in a permanent funeral for the dead Iraq, for Iraq's dead dreams; the dreams of the boys of my village.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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?

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 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?

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.

He was deeply wounded but he bore the wound alone in order to cleanse others. His right was violently robbed, but he was silent in order to ease the burden on the backs of others. When he saw the mistakes of others, his heart said "I forgive. I do not hate”. So he stayed with them correcting the steps so that the ship did not be lost”. He did not want to go away because he knew that the wells would be dry without his love. He is the river of patience, so when he saw the rushing to take what he had, he stayed silent despite the big wound, to teach us forgiveness. He could have been angry but he had chosen mercy, he could have hurt them but he had chosen safety, he could have hard, but he had chosen easiness, and he could have hated but he chose to love. Because he is always loving, the light of his love is bright here with great forgiveness and great mercy. And because he is always loving, the light of his love will be brighter there with greater forgiveness and greater mercy.

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?

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.

The hearts of the lovers have sad songs; very sad songs. And I am, the faint shadow, don't know but longing for your light that does not know the sunset Oh, the pure light which the sky with all its purity yearns for its purity, and Paradise with all its sweetness loves its sweetness. You are a river of strange forgiveness, a sea of strange patience and a world of strange eternity. Your spirit fills the places with light and fragrance and your words fill the times with love and wisdom. O the prince of faith give me a look that will heal my wounds and give me a chance to live in the cities of light. Those pale nights, very pale nights wanted to make the dawn gray and make the wheat empty, but your free voice, Ali, gives life to the dead earth and your heavenly light does not extinguish. Yes, Commander of the Faithful, they killed you on that sad day, the very sad day, but they did not **** your voice and did not erase your glory Now, the eyes have lost the light of the road; nothing here but the gray stories. They have brutally blinded the road and left the eyes on the west side. O cruelty, how can they think of making all this great pain and this great unhappiness? But I am not worried, I know that your light and your name are high in heaven and earth, and no matter how pale hands and dark papers tried to paint your place with ashes and fill the houses of your lovers with smoke, they will fail because your light does not know the sunset.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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 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?

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.

We have girls; pink girls adore life; adore it deeply. Their hearts are white hearts fill the air with enjoyment and their smiles are pink smiles color the places with pleasure. The homes; our homes are black without the girls’ smiles and the city; our city is empty without the girls’ laugh We have girls; very dreamy girls; in their eyes, the aspirational tales wear beautiful dresses and on their shoulders the ambitious bags are pink and shiny. . Our girls’ fragrance is coming from the fairies’ land, and their pink veils are coming from the shining flowers.Yes, in Iraq, we have girls; nice girls; their dreams are big and pink, and their wishes are smiling and Rosary. Our schools are proud that magic girls are sitting on their disks, and our gardens are delight that charming girls are playing between their flowers. Our palm trees give all their sweet date for our girls’ hands and our buckthorn trees give all their full seeds to our girls’ labs.