My eyes are filled with dust, and my ears, are pierced by a sleeping civilization. I don't know how this air gets into my lungs. Floods are no longer enough to end this world. His body is like a motionless stick, and there is only a frantic crawling in the darkness. Yes, there must be a new death. Thus, I cast out a ghost of peace. I whipped the back of the Galaxy with a squeaky sound.  
The ants choke the valleys, and they fold up like a table for the hungry. Their bodies are piled with cheap sand that fills the cracks of old age in the face of alien civilization. Yes, failure is the legacy of this galaxy, lest it be said that man knows nothing of immortality, and lest I pretend that life has stopped in the sowing season, I will bring out a skinny cow that will fill the earth with screams, leaving no room for it. To allow them to leave.
This is how the word splits, like a star swimming in a river. The world is shrinking and its bones gobbling up the stench. And this civilization is nothing more than a dying city. Life has become harsh schedules, but the birds fill it with singing, and teach man the love that revives hearts. I do not deny the joy of the city, and I do not forget its bright colors on the glass of my lens, but what you see of tears is enough for a person to be silent for a while.

Here I am walking exhausted and merciless - under the shadow of promises - bumping into every rock on either side of the road. My feet are so cold that they despair, and my forehead is a legendary promise that knows no death. I am a man who is very postponed and dull. My life is dark, its knees are tired of emptiness, and its forehead is filled with cold wounds.
How can I wake up while the shattered mirrors await me, scattering my body in space, holy wars, their stalks dancing above my capitals like branches of dewy corn. And they laugh and tell me that I am something immortal, bleeding here and there with pleasure. Oh, my miserable luck, is there other choice than holy wars?
Yes, my friend, this is how I fall, a waterfall that knows nothing but crying. I disappear in my longing like a traveler of snow, whose ribs have been shattered by the stories of passersby.
Yes, this is me, a postponed man and a crippled dream. When I live with all my voice and when I drown in my pain to the marrow, the harsh afternoon devours me, and many great voices swallow me in a moment. Then I know that the beloved earth is lying when it sheds a tear as pale as the color of sunset.

The love that the tumultuous lover failed to create is the cause of all this hot flux, perhaps he should revise his tune. What we see in his promises is just glamor. I always told him to break free from tumultuous love. I told him that evening, and I was very serious; messing with bright promises is frightening. In fact, he knew that his tumultuous love made him a weightless ghost. It's now motionless and feelingless, and you can imagine what the bustle would be without the flavor of excitement. Yes, you can imagine that; It's really a strange thing.

When we left the icy land to drown in the scent of the bustling city, the streets were rippling with hearts stealing. There is no quiet in the bustling city nor winter, so there is no place for any cold word or heavy souls. Everything here smiles, the eyes are filled with incense and colors, and mouths have hymns. In the sweet moments here, you can't find anything but amazing moments and deep stories. Colorful lights paint the walls and cheeks and bloom with henna on the hands. I cannot forget that tree-covered road caressing our heads and the skyscraper that stands at the heart of an enchanting beach.

Summer is not beautiful in Iraq; it is old and it is standing on a long failure. The summer here, like me, loves watermelon, but it is a bitter love. The watermelon here is something hidden and wondrous, full of secrets and magic, and our ancestors often tell us about it strangely, until I thought that the watermelon is a mythical being. When I return from my long absence, I will go to one of the doors of my grandfather's small orchard, and I will paint a small watermelon on it and I will celebrate. I will invite all the birds of the earth to seed the grain of watermelon in the fields of the Iraqis in order to make a big celebration; it is the festivity of the great Watermelon.

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.

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.

I was traveling in the desert cities with a smile in my heart. The puzzling sea gave me an old song. It is a memory coming from faraway land told me about the adventure that sat in our depths. It always told me that the wind is a strange leaf that misleads us with delusions, but when we sleep, we see its face clearly. At that moment, her cold stories will show us. I am not a big bluffing mirror, but I feel like I'm a colorful shade looking for a unique flower, and when I find it, it says: Student, sometime you need to be blind to see clearly. I hear her voice, and I see her face in my heart, because I am a blind man.

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.