I did not discover the parliament, and I did not have that wide boat that can carry the galaxy, I just learned to live honestly and I have a small mirror where I can see my image. In recent years, they have planted a parliament in our land, and the ancestors said it was a good plant similar to the wheat; it doesn't know to lie. We did a celebration and create a beautiful and large building to the parliament, and I was told that they brought a different mirror that could show things for what they were, I mean a true mirror. No one knows who brings that mirror, but a parliamentarian on a rare occasion said that the mirror is a magical spirit made by the wishes of our people, but at the end of his speech he smiled invisibly when a reporter asked him about his image in it.   I think parliamentarians see the truth but forget it.

Yes,, I am an inspiring poet because I am the son of wars; my torn pocket carries nothing but weep. How can I not be a poet; I mean a sad poet while our poets are the heirs of the broad pains; I mean the heirs of wide ruin? I will draw a painting, and of course it will be without a smile because I am the son of wars. I will look at a woman and I love her, and of course my love for her will be without flavor because I am a sandy ghost the wars have stolen his face. S o I will try to write a poem; I mean I happy poem but I cannot be happy, not because I chose this but because I am from this land; the land that knew nothing but war and tears. Look at our flowers; they are dead; look at our river; it is dry and look at my mouth, it does not know smiling.

My heart is very shining, not because of its soft whiteness but because of all those young dreams which have been melted in my stony chest. I tried, like any shaded tale, to hide my dead flowers with a torn cloak, so they can't see any picture of a living fragrance; I mean the fragrance of the remote lands. Here, in my heart, you find all the naked wishes that cover her nakedness with a cloak; I mean the worn cloak. Yes, I am a scarf man; my water is dark and all these cloaks cannot hide my grief. Yes, I am the naked man, and it is not strange to see my feet immersed in every futile story. I am the mantle of sorrow; my land is only a legendary face of crying and my women are nothing but faint boats.

They are pure spirits; they are pure spirits. We encountered them at the fields. Do you remember them? They are pure like light. They are innocent spirits. They are innocent spirits. We saw them streaming gently. Do you remember them? They are as innocent as the river. At that time, they were loving; light and river. Uh, the light and the river were lovers, at that time.
It's morning. It's morning. It's the beautiful morning sun. Do you remember it? When the light and the river were two lovers. It was painting her whispers on our cheeks; O purity; O innocence; when the river and light were in love.

We have a thick curtain that was inadvertently colored by lost moments. She, without delay, comes in the evening with strange winds to comb our coarse hair. In fact, I cannot distinguish her from our faces nowadays and because of this confusion I sometimes think she is my mother. She stands there to reduce the sound of the noon sun; I mean the burning sun, and to bring back some of our lost consciousness, but because of its redness, she always remembered the sad stories of lost life; I mean the tales of war.

Our palm tree is as beautiful and scary as the princess. Her eyelid is longer than of the river and her veil has brought the lives of our ancestors to displace our narrow dreams. I can feel her wavy pulse and I can see her charming smile behind her shawl. Near her feet, there is a fountain of magical water, and next to her wishes I see my face stolen as a yellow bird. I want to tell you that her magical veil is unable to hide her soul, and despite its stunning colors, it cannot hide her shiny fingers.

Have you heard about Sumac? Yes, it is purple, but it is stinging because the beautiful southern nights kissed its lips. The fish love Sumac because the Euphrates carried it on its back for many years. Sumac is so Iraqi so its spirit is kneaded with war stories. Did you know that Sumac and despite its sadness, it indulges in the fragrance of celebration, just like our streets.It is the son of the desert and like our daughters; the daughters of the desert always dream of days without smoke. We inherited Sumac from our Babylonian ancestors who made it with smoky tears, so you need an Iraqi smile to see the splendor of its glory.