Sunday, January 1, 2023





At the beginning of the line is rain

And smoke panting behind its embers…

blaming metamorphic ash dunes

For a rock painted with henna…

Did the cold drops come to you with an aspiration…?

then I got a drunken shiver

and you bow like a laughing lyre

to capture my severed head in public

That car was passing by

she did not give her bucket to count the rogue eyes

The yawning whiteness of the paper

So I bought nostalgia for cheap, a few kisses.

Undress your excessive irritability…

The returnees don't fly with villi

in front of my blind mirror that ignores

Their first biography…

Arise and fly in my highest heaven

and spread not thy follies among the ordinances of the furnace.

My pink cheek was darkened by your heart

And you are the barefooted lunatic without madness

I will fill you with a bucket and wipe out your bottom

Most of the maps of stillness…

Fradis my civilization fragrant with its scents

do not allow the monsters of its green oases

to secretly follow the tails of the stars

to draw from the bubbles of the last rain

The river is mine...and the bank…and the bottom

The blossom is mine… the stem… and the perfume

And without it, do not put your hand on the fronds of the trees.


Born Gods


He threw his corpse on a dilapidated wooden bed, grieving his head, after being exhausted by the stab wounds of waiting. He put the perfume of his tears on the pillow, scenting the long night dragon. He mutters between his lips and curses the features of his estranged face, which accompanies him every morning. Does this disguise me in the dark of the night…! The whore of this despised old woman, I do not owe her negligent laws, and I do not settle between her fragile and weak ribs, there is nothing left of her except begging and pleading with the ends of the hearts Hired, think carefully and wonder, is this the straight path? ..

Suddenly the sound of his blue window rang… leaning on it.

The happiness of life comes from the birth of hope after despair, and the despair born from the womb of hope is fatal.


God's Sun


Effeminate shells implant me inside their ancient forehead, I sip a sip of the nectar of death closely intertwined, when I hear the hums of the wind in the blue of the sky, asking for the excessive alms of the soul between the lull of time divisions, so that the roar of fatigue occupies its eyelids at every sunset and sunrise, the stillness wave is filled with a drowning rogue pulse, preying on its echo Walls like the Empty Quarter..

He returned to revolve around the frightening darkness, and spread the ululation of the dead over the sidewalks of the graves, to bring them back their memory before leaving. I am the true seed of survival, and the realistic image without the frame of control.




Dr. ADNAN AL-RIKANI, born in 1971 in the city of Mosul. Iraq - Kurdistan Region. Poet and journalist

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