Iraqis cannot live without war, and the morning breeze cannot flirt with their cheeks without its futile sound. I am an Iraqi man; my soul was kneaded by the acidity of sumac, and my dreams drowned in the sea of our sad tales. It is the death that we inherited from our Babylonian fathers, and that cannot be changed without a soft and patient hand. But despite all this bitter smoke, you need the sad Iraqi smile to see the glory of the sun.
