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.