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