Monday, October 1, 2018




We were like a night
That had lost her light;
We wore our distress,
Split by grief
War veterans….
Moving between the blows of history
Without any glimmer of victory,
And we became addicted exiles,
Jumping between fragments, Searching for a thread of hope….
Our land is not for us,
Not even our blood.
Our fatalities alternate
Between the fingers of the tyrants.
We, Southerners,
Are busy preparing ourselves for departure;
Horrific fantasies colonize
Our dreams instead of spring trees
This is a time of war-storms.
All roads are barren
Every street is hit by a drought;
But we are still walking
And just keep on walking….
You can clearly see
Our footprints on the desert.


Oh, Faleeha,
How brilliant is your future?
I whisper into my ear
And pat myself on the shoulder.
Every morning,
I start my day with a big lie That I tell myself….
Leave the news to the promoters of rumors
Houses being bombed by skilled pilots will be rebuilt immediately afterward
Leave Iraqi women-for sale in the Sbaya Bazaar in Mosul
Mothers will give birth to new daughters nine months later
Don’t worry about the man who sells his life for a handful of coins under the sweltering sun
One day, he will get a Chinese umbrella
Don’t worry about your niece whose face is now being eaten by skin cancer
She will get photoshopped and receive
A beautiful profile picture for her Facebook page;
Why do you keep looking at the picture of your friend who has been missing since the Kuwaiti war?
He is lucky!
He survived the darkness of a grave!
Oh, Faleeha,
Leave the children of Baghdad to wake up to violent explosions
Music is no longer fit for their mornings
Write down the martyrs’ names on a piece of a paper
And place it in your old coat and leave it in the closet
Or send it to the dry cleaners..

I’m tired of counting the names of the martyrs.
Besides, the war never ends
Don’t plan for the future!
It is as a close as a sniper’s bullet.
I begin each day with a big, Big, big lie.
No lie, however,
Can cover the chilling truth…


I remember…
Like birds afraid of their feathers catching fire,
We would rush to hide
Whenever we heard the sirens
My little sister's voice would hit the walls of the room.
She would scream: “Hold me!"
As she stood frozen in her place
And her eyes sank into a sea of fear
Words would burst out of my tongue….
We would run toward our mom, holding her hands tightly,
And our whole little world would begin to shake
From the roars of the fighter planes.
I thank the sirens a lot now,
Every time I hear them
They remind me of the scent of my mother's hands,
When she was trying hard to strengthen our thin roots.


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