NEW YORK DREAMER

I have told New York's bustling streets, and its blossom flowers, that I have a dream, a loud dream, that I love without limits, without boredom, and tiredness.  You, like me, are also a farmer from the south, and like me you dream of loud love, yes, the loud love has another taste and has another color. When you close your eyes, you fly, because you are free and because you are a dreamer, and because you love without limits.  I will talk to you about all bright dreams, bright tales, and bright eyes.  Yes, I will talk to you tirelessly, and without getting bored, because I am a New Yorker dreamer.

THE BLIND MAGIC

When I saw the crazy blindness sweeping our streets, I knew magic was real, and at that time I understood all that great passion for violence that kidnapped the heart of humanity. I am not a professional poet, but the poem told me that humans have soft and delicate souls. It also taught me a method that could help me get away from the limelight. But as you can see, the lights are magic and eyes can be stolen. When I decide to become a man of lights, I will definitely learn a different magic that is not like a thief's magic. The poem, like me, believes in sorcery, but I am sure that when it knows a little about the magic of this blind world, it will change its idea of ​​dazzling magic.

SOUL TRANSPLANTATION

I am a son of a farmer, not a son of a queen. What will happen if we exchange our destiny? But frankly, I cannot imagine myself being a son of a queen, nor can I imagine you as a farm son. So, I will rely on another way to achieve our transformation. I will go to a spiritualist friend and ask him to perform a soul transplant; by giving my body your soul, and giving your body my soul. I think after that, we'll all understand the true story.

THE CRAZY CORONA

Your message is scary, and I can't stand all this longing. I am learning the song; my eyes will never fall again and my hands will not be noisy. This is a pledge and a celebration. I will go to the far market in search of my start. And as an old lover, I will repeat every absent dream that fades before evening on the foliage. I will tell my story for many generations, and Like a bitter rain, I will slowly fade, and I will stand wet in the middle of the road hoping for you. And loudly I will sing my sorrow; that the crazy Corona told me everything and taught me the game of silent life. I am learning because I am a good student sitting behind a tightly closed door without sharp eyes and without hard heart.

THE FADED END

THE FADED END

I heard that the rivers will breathe their last laughs in the faded stream, and the birds will leave their eggs in the faded trees and build their nests in my grandfather's faded garden. Clouds will make the sky tell faded stories and rain faded hours. The absences will sleep in my faded dreams, until you can see the spirits embracing their faded shades. The sun's rays will drink their last tea in the faded darkness, then you can see my poem standing at the faded end.

I WRITE TO YOU WITH SADNESS

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.

THE FESTIVITY OF THE GREAT WATERMELON

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.