It is his voice; the precious voice, pouring over the sidewalk to tomorrow's smile. Only, he and his voice and Iraq, so there is no place here for the yellow laugh or the strange story. When he calls, he preaches the palm trees, and when he smiles, he smiles to the beautiful Iraqi eyes. It is the brown sparrow born from a high southern palm. It is not a shadow so his voice is golden and his dream is great kneaded with the blood of the martyrs and the tears of women. Here; in his heart live the cane of Iraq, and here; in his eyes, its beautiful future shines. His eyelid is a safe ship, a flapping wing and a beautiful dream. Yes, it is his voice; the future of the new Iraq.
The artphoto is my work
