Ali Habash Poet ABC

Baghdad

Her bridges are in school textbooks,
Her dead are numbers in the papers.

Every tourist wears black.
In a dream, I visited her once too;

I saw a friend drinking his tears
In a tea-cup, and he smiled.

I saw a crow that covered the clouds
with its wings and I saw a graveyard

in the garden of Maydan. So where
are the poets, and the photographs, Fairuz?

This is Tigris sleeping on a stretcher,
Besieged by soldiers and wishes.

And when I crossed the bridge to Rusaffa,
The search point spat in face.

I was woken by a shot to the head.

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