In the special world, everything is special; the birds are special, the flowers are special, the buildings are special and the dresses are special. In India, the faces are special, the eyes are special and the words are special. The rivers in India are special, the forests are special and the hills are special. The moments are special, the smiles are special, the glances are special and the beauty is special. India plants in your depth a special memory, creates special moments and leaves in you a special yearning. Yes, any land can be special, but India is very special, I mean magically special. Yes, in India, the special world, everything is special.

I am a Babylonian man, and here, in my depth an ancient soul. Ishtar is my eye; Gilgamesh is my ear and Uruk is my wing. Yes, I am from Babylon, so you see my skin brown like our earth, my heart white like our sun, my soul is tolerant like our palm trees and my hands are bounteous like our Euphrates. Look at my face it is expressive like the Babylonian drawing, and hear my voice it is deep like the Babylonian tales. The flowers are more beautiful in Babylon; the smiles are more beautiful in Babylon and the sun is more beautiful in Babylon. Yes, it is me the naked and pure Iraqi wishes, and a porter who left all the pain on his should, yes it is me a Babylonian man with optimist glance. Yes Euphrates, it is my eye, my glance and my dream for new Iraq, bright Iraq without wars, without wounds just flowers, love and smiles.

"I like rain because it is a portrayal of love. Its face is wet, but warm and its hand is shivery but kind. It comes at morning as an big smile with strange passion and at evening like an old tale hugs the small leaves . When we get lost in the rainy moments, we find a breeze embracing our bare souls. I can’t imagine how it will be miserable, if I can’t see rain drops’ dancing.

O Tigris, show me your bright color, because I am tired of your dark color. O Tigris love me; please make a mistake and love me for a moment. Look at me with a loving glance; a warm glance. Please leave the ****** glances; the cold glances.Your water is dusty and gloomy; please tell me why your water is dusty and gloomy. O my sad river, tell me; when will your tales end? When can we see your smiling flowers? Why your water is thirsty for your sons’ bloods; the Iraqis’ pure bloods. I am just a bird; lonely bird here, but I am always praying for a happy future for your sons; the Iraqis; please, Tigris blesses them, bless your sons; the Iraqis, please Tigris.

It is the colored world where every place has its shining color, and every time has its magic beauty. I remember very well that deep moments of the crowd road of Mumbai and the magic garden of the Ahmadabad flowers’ city. No winter in India, just warm colors in the Happy Holi, so you don’t need any things but love in this colored world where the souls had been filled with flowers and the minds had been colored with songs. The colored lights made the buildings shining as a colored bride filled with henna and the lovely dark green tress penetrated our souls without delay. I can't forget that that skyscraper which had stood in the heart of that shore where a road disappears in the times of high tide. Just in the colored world you find great love to the great persons, and just in India you find the magic fragrance of the charming inheritage. No differentiation and no fences in the colored world where the different languages disappear under the one tent and the different weathers take a beautiful tune in that colored world.

I saw peace and love face to face. Yes, Bhubanesawr is the transfiguration of peace and love and can teach the world their songs. I am a simple man, I mean very simple and Bhubanesawr is simply penetrating, I mean very penetrating and it always leaves in you a very special memory. The friends are great, I mean so great, the people are kind, I mean so kind and the time is nice, I mean very nice. The time is very touching in Bhubaneswa; its hands are soft and warm, and it's eyes and kind and sleepy. When it walks, it walks like a queen and when it talks, it talks in melody. In the morning, it comes with pink fragrance and at evening it goes with the orange breeze. I won't forget the titian Bahanesawr.

We are the brothers of suns; our winter chants have a very delicate roaring, and our mumbles have a wide love. We are the sons of old farmers know the magic tales of our rosary rivers and comb the golden braid of the sun at its smiley morning. You know; the brother is a smile, and the brotherhood is a gift so when you have a brother you will be an endless happy bird and a timeless openhanded tree. Yes, We are Iraqis; the son of  this land; the land of brotherhood; our Hilli beans inherited the magic songs from the Babylonian clayey tablets and our amber rice has learnt their peaceful colors from the white souls of our ancestors. Yes, we are the sons of the magic land but this strange world always -and without cause- trying to **** our dreams. Here, in our land, the land of brotherhood, the souls are smooth and the hearts are delicate but the roads are grey and the winds are rough because the blind world has a very black hand which don't stop the stealing of our chants. Yes, we are the endless chants and timeless songs but you should plant a red rose in your fields and  lodge wild deer in your lands to hear our magic and to see our colors.