a nightmare

like a nightmare on a bed 
  I was walking in my fog
  stepping in my  alienation
  kneeling  down carrying the 
  sound of sunset
I became stumbling by the 
  echo
  by the longing, 
  I've  been guarding
  the doors of ruin
to massage the palm of my 
heart 
so that the scars can not  
pigment  him 
poem by 
Ibtissam Ibrahim  - poetess  and translator
  Iraq - Baghdad