By Anwar Jaber
Our river is not sleepy as you think, but he just smashed by a nipping coldness. Yes, no warm hands here in Iraq and all that you expect to see at evening is a severe groan. We have souls and in contrary to your inherited fences, there is nothing here but river’s moan. Come here hug our weak shadows and try to wipe off the last tears of your moany river’s groan.
We are the desert’s sons and our mothers had made our skin from woolen stories. Look at our well, it is sorcery and looks at our hearts, they are openhanded as a woolen river. Here, we have no dream, but the Euphrates sits between us a wise man flowing over with legendary tales. Our river hasn’t a frosted heart or an empty mouth and all these stories are just illusion. Yes, you can’t find any hot story and you can’t see two kissers under our trees but our river’s heart is always warm as wool and always colored us with a different passion which you can’t imagine.
That very white river has disappeared behind the trees and from there, he looks at me with a cold thrill. He always whispers silently in my deep lands and his birds have always died of love. He wasn’t a rose or a smile; he was just a silent tale its very strange coldness eats my memory, so you may see my soul colored with very dormant and white wishes.