Secret Springs

Preface

Below are poems I wrote between 2016 and 2020. They represent all my poems, but in fact, whenever I read one of these poems, I feel that they are poems for future generations, and no one can read these poems now because they came from secret springs.

Anwer Ghani

Iraq - Babil

5/9/2024

2014

NEW DEATH

My eyes are filled with dust, and my ears, are pierced by a sleeping civilization. I don't know how this air gets into my lungs. Floods are no longer enough to end this world. His body is like a motionless stick, and there is only a frantic crawling in the darkness. Yes, there must be a new death. Thus, I cast out a ghost of peace. I whipped the back of the Galaxy with a squeaky sound.

Ants choke these valleys, folding like a table for the hungry, their bodies piled aloft with the cheap sand that fills the cracks of aging in the face of alien civilization. Yes, failure is the inheritance of this galaxy, lest it be said that man knows nothing of immortality, and lest I pretend that life stopped in the sowing season, I will bring out a scrawny cow that fills the earth with a cry, leaving no room for it. to allow them to leave.

This is how the word splits, like a star swimming in a river. The world is shrinking and its bones gobbling up the stench. And this civilization is nothing more than a dying city. Life has become harsh schedules, but the birds fill it with singing, and teach man the love that revives hearts. I do not deny the joy of the city, and I do not forget its bright colors on the glass of my lens, but what you see of tears is enough for a person to be silent for a while.

SWAYING WAVES

For whom are the flowers picked? And for whom are the candles lit? The waves destroyed every butterfly that melts in its nostalgia for the charming sunset breezes. The roads are flimsy, they turn without turning back. My fingers and my calls are not enough to find my starting points.

My beginnings are pale, their winter clothes have been drained and my fingers evaporated; the woodcutters toppled it like twigs hiding among its leaves every civilization I don't tell its great secrets. Nature is adept at unleashing every possible story and every pigeon whispering in my ear tells me about that flood that stole the birds' nests, leaving only my dark skin, and a magic chariot towards being lost.

Though the frogs are pure, and though their croaks color my evening cheeks, I do not find my ears eager for their great singing.

I will fall into the well, because its paintings are devoid of fish and pearls. Yes, pearls are the message of every death and rape of the Gulf. He sleeps hungry on his golden berth where those swamps stretching like virgins in the middle of noon on my back, those hands with very long fingers, they pluck me like autumn leaves so affectionately.

Hurry, smile, o icy capitals. The night walks on two arms of asphalt, and I am those ancient stones in the womb of the earth, satiating its bushes with every bitter cough. My teeth are a painting of beauty, and my fallen lips in the oasis of longing are the story of a old man who passed through my village one day.

Come near, come near, o swaying waves, o utter chants, o body parts that I know, here I am stopping like death. My capitals are devoured by locusts, and my mouth melts every strange boat. Hurry, Hurry, smile, O freedom; for the noon has ended every bush that stands still on its branches and sings the swaying waves, so I go out in autumn like rough cracks on the hands of the peasants.

WEAPONS

Behold, I live to see the new world, I am no longer a child. In the palms of its sunset, every shroud bleeds with weapons. There - in the dark - the cold gives its grandchildren lessons in igniting nature. There; all winds are pale. Weapons suffocate my memory, storm the place, distributing messages of eternal love to the hungry. There, pens don't want to write anything, because beauty has fled outside the galaxy, looking for new lovers. The world hides in an old bottle. Even the holidays, they no longer know the new air. There is only smoke here.

I am not surprised by all this great pain, for I have learned the sufficient reasons; Weapons make camels a vehicle, and they have no choice but to hit the sides of the road, causing the hearts to bleed. There; in these hearts; trees will not find shade, but they are plump and red as they should be. Yes, you know; the heart of the river is a city of ice, and a memory that ignites thunder and clamor in our depths.

This is how the streets shrank, floating in the sky of noise like patients trampled by feet. Children breed in wells in search of an old legend. At that time, I was a child, and the past was a broad view that taught me to hide. My ears were heavy like a mountain, and you did not find any nectar in them.

Infertile Seasons

The infertile seasons no longer have clothes to receive the new spring, the cold has closed the doors of their hearts, their joints are groaning, what immortality does the insolent human eyes know. It is better for history to ask the sidewalks for goods that were thrown by the hail to the side of an old man.

The world is a hungry sun. All he is good at is lighting the fuse, so the sea will drown in tears. Yes, the torrent still carries that great meaning, although I became convinced that myth can live in sick homes like a modern vehicle.

No, you cannot imagine the strangeness of the souls that stumble on the road. The distance captures the place, and as you can see, this person has nothing but pale tales. I am not surprised by all that coldness in the faces of things. My organs split like grains of rice, they hide behind the wide smile of the night, they stretch like illusions in the fields, they are attractive and overflowing, they are dazzling.

In that wide space, which I do not forget, there is not left for man a boat that can accommodate children coming out of the Euphrates, their brown foreheads, on which the river has drawn dunes of fine sand, I remember them properly.

It is not difficult for a person to descend from the sky, and it is not difficult for him to stand like an old tree waiting for joy and death. The sounds of the night thicken the arteries of man, so shame does not flow into his blood. Here I see the shadow multiplying in the place, bloodying the brow of the sublime light, so the galaxy is flooded with the gnostic.

The War

Sunset messes with children's heads, scattering them in the field with dreamy butterflies, so the trees wear their sleepy hats. Stop, stop,  o feet; o dead spells, the soul of man cannot live without boys playing in the mud. Don't you see that things still drag me with their looks, a faraway tent, and a fighter who is proud of himself? Yes, I am the only one who knows the meaning of war, because I speak about it honestly.

The storm changes the face of the water, and so does the war. It makes the mountainous heart an eternal frown for passers-by, leaving the valleys with nothing but shattered chests and echoes. War is a dark color for dawn, and a finger steals the sanctity of tears. It is a dark story whose secrets are deposited only on every dark coast. Yes, feast and war, their words play the melody of migratory birds, the warm sound of the sun has fallen asleep between their wings.

War has an infernal dance that I hid in my forehead for ages, among its ruins are the bare legs of children, and above its waters every boat searches for a sail.You were not present for the beauty of its last scene where the soldiers are back and the capitals of my song buzz like a skinny mosquito swallowing noise and questions. The soldiers have returned, their joints groaning like snow, their hats getting lost in the streets, like virgins whose foreheads kissed autumn. Here I am hearing the legends that come down from there, and this is how I will return with my lips a city whose sidewalks have fallen asleep, hills whose features have changed in the evening, in whose sands the happy tales of soldiers sink. This is how I bring out from among the jungle a new dawn that guides the galaxy every old age known by the years. This is how I bring down to the river a cow that loves vows, singing in its head the shadows of wars.

Dreamy Butterflies

On a dewy morning, dreamy butterflies laugh, and shimmering lake braids sway with a welcoming calm announcing the joy in life. There are the butterflies brushing their hair with happiness behind velvet dreams and dim lights. There behind my flight, I will go out with the dew-drenched birds to the field early, and gather shade-stories, and what butterflies have forgotten. I feel the scent of flowers permeating my pores and the depths of my memory getting brighter with every butterfly I find in the quiet fields. Oh, how wonderful butterflies live in the snow, drawing paths for me to wander like a forgotten ghost.

You know butterflies are the sound of water and when they descend on the corners of town, knocking on dream doors until window lights sparkle on a wintry morning, as if a forgotten vacation has come home before sunrise. I see the soft light of their mystery hearts. they are colorful and soft as the face of the moon. They promised to show me the gates of colored dreams. They always tell me of the strange purity of every sleeping lake pearl and every smile that bursts into the sky.

TO YOU, DAWN 

Wait, O faithful dawn, wait, for my heart is still beating despite this wounded world.  I like the color of the dawn, it fills my lungs with the breath of the revolution, so I fade away in the love of freedom. Then the yellow word does not have space on my lips. My eyes I carry on my back, and my hands I make a boat overflowing with returnees.

To you, dawn and my lips melt in the heart of marble time, this is how the dawn reminds me of all warmth.  Oh, the owner of great concern, my voice is petrified in the midst of cities overflowing with stars, whose lights wander over my cheeks like lost ears of grain searching for walkers.

To you, when you are a spacious beach, those hearts are no longer able to travel to it. It is the radiance that removes the boundaries within me, so there is nothing left of me but a voice that transcends freedom and space. Your hands I see them, wiping off my forehead the strange dust of waiting. Raise me beginning to shake hands with rain. So the earth announces the beginning of the growing season.

To you, every butterfly stretches over the flowers of my memory, like the pearls of a sleepy lake, every smile explodes in the sky and your eyes keep my joy when the dust increases, O ungrateful earth, O ice capitals, wait, wait for victory.

Euphrates

I will end up loving this land like a dazzled butterfly among the branches, above its head a crown of years. This is how I pulled out from its cracks a dream that melted over the sails of an old fisherman. The ears of wheat shook my hand. My joints fall asleep between the lids of the Euphrates, its colors are a tent around which young boys gather laughing; Hands of wind and rain wipe their heads. This is how the Euphrates extends over the pavement of my memory, kissing the lips of trees, like a lover who returned home a year ago. My geese are frozen like amber in the oases of this land, the fingers of the sun mess with my hair every morning, they distribute me messages of love, and the children of my village sleep among the laughter of their lines. Yes, the eyes of Hilla are enough for me, they make a kite from my limbs that boys in the gatherings play with.

This is how I bring out a wide-eyed butterfly, with dreamy boys scattered on its wings, morning birds whispering in their ears: (The moon descended yesterday at the Euphrates, and kissed the foreheads of the streets and the inhabitants).  Euphrates, O master of the rocks, under your clothes every little girl is hidden, stunned by the light of thunder in the evening, and her mother's voice melts: (The Euphrates will drink thunder), so the little girl falls asleep in you, and I fall asleep like a great knower who lives in a cave in the moon.

THE RED FREEDOM

I will melt in your love like the holidays in my country, without slowness or a postponed phrase, for love does not know dreamy songs, it must be a hand and a beginning.

O Lord of rain, and every red freedom that does not know fading, its waiting is agonizing with great shame, so it ends in its longing for you as a bride whose dreams of death and time have melted. The kiss of freedom on your forehead is a song that awakens the walkers. In Karbala, the sadness of eternity, in Samarra, every promising sun, and on the Tigris, the wide gate of heaven. For the land is parched without blood or tears.

I will end up in love with the Tigris and the Euphrates, for they are both hands as long as I fade in their sublime love. It is my beginning towards the heavens that I know, which are full of all warmth. It is my stories that fall like a waterfall that kisses the foreheads of the revolutionaries. Yes, this is how I learn the red song, this is how the sky smiles at its lovers, and it shines from there from your hands.

For earth, water, air and sky is mine. From Baghdad, patience shines with a thousand lights, and from Karbala, a thousand blood boils. So a dove scattered in its alleys, which sank in the middle of noon in the Euphrates.  O master of red freedom, O Hussain, in your heavens the lovers shine like dewy bushes whose lips are kissed by the morning. And between your palms, the stars and legends disappear like an icy shadow that came down one day with the rain.

The Well

For ages, I have been sailing in the well of my memory; The remnants of the horrible wreck where the days hide, and despite their wide hats, the rain touched their dewy skin, so I went out over their fields as sterile and blind moss. My clothes are scattered about, like the houses of an old village. Disappointment permeates my song. In the evening I gather myself as legendary army to drown in the ocean, then I will smile like a monk who knows a lot. I will bring out a pale lily, I do not care about the sun and immortality, for the night is life deferred and a mythical promise of immortality.  The night is a sleepy city, cruelty overflows from its ears and although it is pale, there are alleys in it that accommodate dreams.  its stars have left a terrible mark on my dream. 

My words sail fragile, scattered in the place like a legendary witch of glory without borders. Then you can imagine her painful endings despite all that I see. Yes, I must have enough explanations. I must be very ashamed and apologize to every palm tree and far tent. Freedom knows no cold lips, it must have a hand and a beginning. Jerusalem falls in the absence of a well. Youssef is looking for new cars. There, in the bottom of the well, beauty will shine.

If I were not ignorant of the history of peoples, and had it not been for the ignorant of a lot of what explodes in my head, I would have been - inevitably and without hesitation - a wild rock that grows with flowers.

HOW CAN I SEE

I will dissolve in my words like an ostrich whose dreams are wet with rain. I will vanish in the cracks of this earth, for love is a strange world that extends over the roads, stealing my desire and my young smile. The wide distances in my memory were frozen by the bleeding of the streets and the inhabitants. That cold vehicles know nothing of beauty so how ca I see the warm hearts?

I know things I don't understand, come closer, voice, give me enough chance. My language is split like the limbs of a wounded martyr. Alienation is killing me. I feel that I belong to future generations. My blood has hidden them in an old museum. The word has a thousand wings that fills me with fear. How can I see? The love of the earth is not enough, it is necessary to be completely free. Yes, when time becomes a wing that trembles, and space has a foot to walk, then I will collect my breath, like a bouquet of roses that smile at the near future. Here, the word froze, needing another eye, a shivering body. My blood is a cool message. Thorns permeate me. My wounds multiply in the fields of language, like a harsh Bedouin tent. I still have a shortage. Language is looking for new sailors, no, the sun is no longer enough as a symbol of freedom. Distance shackles me, I'm still stuck to the ground, my words feel cold, my limbs freeze like trains inhabited by travelers from snow, I'm very partridge.

PURE WAVES

Behold, I am lost in you as hard as I can. Here I am waiting for your pure waves. Come towards me, let the time come that I do not forget. Love is a wandering that does not know tears and death. Behold, I learn to desire things. The face of water is the mirror of all knowledge. Thus my body devours the earth like a shadow destroying a great kingdom of ants. I am lonely as a stone, the veils make my throat a compound that is not good for anything, I am not as pure as it should be, my joints are a fishermen's net in a lake killed by salt, my voice multiplies in the sand like a mythical fetish that permeates the skin of the new generation.

The pure wave I will know its desire. The joy of flowers, I will know it, I will be silent, perhaps I will remember something, I will wait like a cedar tree overflowing with returnees. My forehead sticks to the ground. Joy overtakes me. How embarrassed I am by this deficiency. I prepare with what I have. Give me a chance, I am a torrent of apologies and pleases. Here I am learning the song, my eyes will never fall again, my hands will never wander. This is a covenant and a celebration.  Now I feel more mature, flowing over the darkness like dew. I don't leave a window for the sun, my language slaps the face of the earth. All this under the pretext that I am a lover of beauty and a great researcher. Here I am falling silently and completely alienated. My words lie in the shrouds of the wind and the features of my face are deferred. I don't have to see the moon like lovers, because I still hear news about people whose dreams have melted smiling cities.  From here, I learned how to sail as a crescent moon announcing the beginning of the new month.

The Month Of  Rain

Your stories are like the old feasts in my country that dressed me in new clothes. Their wide doors open only with love. I almost fade away in my shyness. I see the traces of your love on the face of time like springs overflowing with birds, where every evening the moon comes down and plays with children until their eyes fall asleep. Oh, how far I am from you, like stones, no water, no flowers.

When your call passes through me, like an old book, I am terrified. So are your honest words giving me only hope. Thank you, your fingers teach me the revolution of life in my barren branches. Sha'ban, the month of rain, fills the earth with a new era in which the radiance opens its eyelids. I am not alone, the world is also listening. In Karbala we meet without tears.

Yellow Words

Dew roams the streets like vendors and children, telling them every happy story, every evening it penetrates my veins and makes my memory birds repeating their old anthem. This is how I go out yellow with the morning, without promises or a graceful look. I only have a strange language and things in my head that are so far away, that I don't understand them. Yes, my language is on a cold night, without shame, it inhabited the heart of the sun and fell as yellowed paper effortlessly with complete spontaneity. This is how I am, a mirage carrying sweets and promises in my pocket.

I will dive deep into the earth, hoping that amateurs will find me. I will be silent, so that the chaos hears my voice. This is how I learn to write the new history, as I do not know water except vinegar that dries the blood of my veins, puts love in its pocket like a yellow pear, the birds built their safe nests in the holes of their bones. I am the last thing I was looking for, here I have learned to turn around without limits, a city without a beacon that reaches the sky, I sit in the middle of the hill for nothing but an assault on nature. Hurray,  O yellow words.

A radiance

I am not a shadow of having all that great history. My limbs  are a fire of woodcutters. Sorrows closed the shops of my joy, made me a legendary ghost who had left the desire for life. Here I see birds' nests, carried by endless chariots, leaving without pain. Yes, birds have a heart full of every beloved story.

My language is rusty nails, it knows nothing about civilization, its eyes are leaves from the rain which make from its anxiety a tired crutch whose feet are sunken in the mud. In the arms of this absence, I can hardly distinguish the face of the earth from parts of my shoulder that I brag about are classy. Yes, I must have the words of the sea when I talk about the radiance inside me. My mouth twists between the words. Freedom flows from my ears like ants. I fade in the speed of absence, like a lover who drags the light behind him, so it does not shine.  I can no longer bathe in the Euphrates, or find in my blood a chariot to sail towards the sun.

I will melt in my pain like a farmer's song that grows among the wheat. My bag overflows with walkers, I only have two knees to touch the face of the earth. I have nothing but thorns that devour my joints, bending around my dream as a cold milk seller on winter mornings. I will have learned a lot. When absence becomes a radiance, and when words disguise their clothes, know that you are looking at a wedding night overflowing with dryness. Yes, you see, what I see is celebration, complete spontaneity. Yes, you see what I see, everything sings everything he wants.

UNCIVILIZED VOICE

I don't have to rave like a reed, the darkness of which makes pink clogs for the customers of the ancient Hilla baths. I stand there as a silhouette without turning back, without a date, knocking on the doors of shadows, to meet with weeping.

We are here something very delayed and shameless. Behold, I burst forth like a turbid fountain, Anxiety devours my fingers, Makes of my song rusty times. It's dead times, it's the last to talk about freedom and beauty.

Yes, my voice is not as civilized as it should be, for nothing, except that my words fall out completely strangely. Evening flows from my ears like a train running through things. You know, in order for me to be civilized as it should be, darkness must melt in my blood, and for me to become like a chandelier without pain and without return. Damn when these chapters end, life begins.

A MONK

Velvet stones I am, shining in a magical moment of a harpy bird in my grandmother's winter tales, embracing whispers