I am from the south where the trees are dry and the rivers are waterless. Our sky is dark and its sun is foggy. I am from that south where everything is colorless. Our southern fields have daughters but our streets are always blind. These southern daughters are smiling but their eyes are filled with hidden tears. Their hearts are sad but their dreams have pinky wings. Our southern daughters are miracles and their braids give the sea its lucid blueness.
She is a secret daughter living in the fields as a butterfly. Her colored wings bring agreeable water from a remote well and her breaths make me swim in a remote lake. She is beautiful but strange and brilliant but hidden. Her glowing face has been covered by a dark veil and her clement heart has been smashed by my primitiveness.
Our sun has a thick veil and many daughters. I saw them walking in our streets with lightless mantles. They are sunny but cold and shining but dark. Their voices are icy and silent and their evenings have been travelled between the ambergris as a blind grasshopper. They are eating our girls’ beauty and build their glory on our tired shoulders. Please don’t ask me about their eyes because in addition to my blindness they have cloudy faces.
A Pale Moon
Our sky has inherited the worry clouds from the grey ancestors. It was waiting migrant holidays but our souls had nothing but gloomy faces. Our sky is a tear of a crying land where the sad rivers had written their stories. Here, you can’t see but dry flowers and in our hidden corners, you will find a pale moon with coarse cheeks. Look at me; I am the son of pale moon, my hand is very cold and my lip is fissured as a widow’s heart.
I am a lifeless tree with colorless tales. I am a man can’t live with dauntless boat. Here, in my destroyed land, there is no glory nor poems and all what can you see is a blind death. Our houses are filled with black bitterness and our grass is not green. Our girls are fields of sadness and our streets are mirrors of wars. Yes, we are sons of blind death but there are no fault on our hand and no any blood on our coats.
Anwer Ghani is an Iraqi poet and writer. He was born in 1973 in Hilla. His name has appeared in Otoliths, Adelaide, November Bees, Zarf, Peacock, Eunioa, Rabbit and many others He is the author of “Narratopoet”; (Inventives Cloud 2017), “Antipoetic Poems”; (Creat Spacee 2017), “TRUMP”; a poetry collection, (Inner Child Press 2017) and “The Narratolyric Writing”; essays (Smashwords 2017). Anwer had 40 books in literature and religious sciences in Arabic.