I asked every rose in our garden and every tree near our house to tell you frankly: Every year I love you more. Today, in this charming morning I spoke seriously with the sun, and we decided to tell you one fact: Every year I love you more. It is the last night of December and this year has passed with a great memory, but what I really remember are our moments where I love you more. Now, on this silent night, near our little fireplace, specifically in this intimate winter moment, I listen well to my coffee and remember every word of it and how it tells me to give you a big hug and tell you strongly: Every year I love you more and more.  When I sit next to you, I love you more, and when I travel across faraway lands, I deeply feel that I love you more.  When I talk to you, I love you more, and when I remember your words, I love you more and more. In fact, every day I love you more, and every year I love you more.

I met an old friend in the dream and his hand was warm, not because of fever but because of his love. You cannot imagine the effect of flowers and friend in a dream. You may not know that our dream is the only place where we can see white birds and trees smiling because it is rare to see a smile in my city where the souls are dark like deformed wood, but our dream always smiles to us as a mother.

It is the same sad December every time in Iraq, no change, no hope. Really sad thing.
--What I wrote in December 2017
You sit there, on that branch with my dream, but I cannot see your beauty because my eyes are soaked in the redness of December. I am a red man from the land of wars; my blood is shed and my soul is broken. No flowers here, no spring, only red December.( From " Red December" poem)
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--What I wrote in December 2018
These streets have been made by the rough fingers of our December where the nights are weepy, and the moons are colorless. You can’t see anything here in December just violent and shameless faces. ( From " Stormy December" poem)
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--What I wrote in December 2019
I freeze; but I do not freeze because the snow plays with my nose and cheeks, but rather because the New Year's tree has become red like the streets of my city and the New Year's party cups are full of tears of our mothers. ( From " Crazy December" poem)

The ancestors used to say that life was a moment and imagine how it would be if its color is orange; the eyes are orange, the lips are orange and the dresses are orange. The orange color has been so burning. so the Asian tribes often raise them over their mountains. It is warm but dewy like the spirit of the sunset which grabs our hearts with its soft passion, so you can not see here only dewy flowers. Yes, the sunset is an inspiring visitor; its glorious breeze knocking on our doors every day, but as you know I am a peasant from the south; my heart is very thin, but it knows nothing about the amazing orange color.

The dawn is not colorful nor its breeze, but politics is multicolored. It's like a mysterious bird you see it green in the morning, yellow in the noon and red in the evening. He is not good at flying because he was born without wings, but he is good at jumping on the shoulders of others. The revolutionaries are not colored because they have wings and they like hope always lives in reality, but the color of politics is terrible and variable so that no one believes their words anymore, even children at school, even the fish in the river. I am not a revolutionary man, and I always try to take silent steps, but these losses, calamities and death have no other reason than the coloration of politicians.

The streets are narrow here in the city where I live, and the houses are very simple as small wishes. Yes, I live in a small town and after every Friday afternoon there is a demonstration, but the streets are narrow and the birds here have gray eyes and hearts, and the windows don't know the light. I like the demonstration not because it is a beautiful face of freedom but because it is a living thing and has been banned in my country for decades. You know; Friday is a feast here and many people like to spend the afternoon in the central square under the sun on a clear and noisy day in a small town that lacks a children's playground, amusement park or wide streets; nothing here but narrow spirits.

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.