Three sadly beautiful prosepoems from the Iraqi poet Anwer Ghadi.
We can smell all the perfumes of ruinations because we are the sons of war. Its eyes kill our dreams and its hands clap our cheeks. When you walk in our streets, you will tumble by our cheap souls and at that dark corner you will meet the faceless boys. Yes, we are sons of wars; our hands are empty and our souls are broken. The waterfalls can’t moisten our dry hearts, and the river can’t revive our rocky roots.
No braid on our girls’ heads because war has stolen everything here every the girls’ braids. Their lips are dry with deep fissures and their faces and colorless like our days. Here, in Iraq everything is empty even the souls of the girls. You won’t see the childish jumps of their feet or the playing smiles of their arms, but you will see thin legs and a very…
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