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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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'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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

I always try to wear a white dress, but all my attempts always fail, perhaps because I am from a land where the ashes are rooted and have a long history of darkness. I am the son of dim lights, so I know candles only in the tales my father tells me, but look at my hands; they are very empty. This white dress smiles at you and tells you to be a rose; the roses do not know the hatred. When my mother gave birth to me, she put me in a white dress. When I died, my children put me in a white dress, so I do not want to cut that chain and that date, so I decided today to buy a white dress. The white dress is good, it makes you shiny and smiling, as it brings back the memories of the old heavenly. In fact, I am not celestial, and my feet are clinging to the ground like a blind rock, but I always try to walk quietly in the road and to love the morning for no reason.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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 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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.