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Life Arabic Poem by: Riyadh Al-Ghareeb* Translated into English by: Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk) ================================ It was not his idea He did not wave to the sundown of his life Quite simply, he let life go by He was the only one who did not care about the war Rather, he listened to music And wrote poems While Shells were falling all around him.. Not once, he thought about death Nor he paid attention to getting old in the mirror All that he cared about Was a woman he imagined loving him And waiting for someone who may come back Carrying a small snippet Emblazoned with the script From extreme madness “ To... “ He lived in his illusion Even as he became a poet. When his life was clotting And nightfall of life was waving to him He realized All that was going on around him Was not his choice And the life he encountered Was not his life.. So, He tried to get rid of his blue beard And bitter tears Near the nearest war of his country’s A country that has become Addicted to wars. He let his hair grow long His dark skinned face Was on the verge of revealing nightly starvation At noontime, his children were panting After a lifeless Dinar.. His final poem Was laden with the grief of the world But that world did not care about what was going on.. In his only room The smell of onions mixed With the smell of the empty pots; Hanging onions Was the most beautiful memory in a country Without memory It's his life That he wanted to be A part of his ration card, His birth record And the rest of his poems. “Woe to the ruin!” He said Removing the dust from a painting of him Made, in a stolen moment, By a painter who died two wars ago. He was laughing And holding a drink with an innocent cheer As, above his head, birds in the somber colors of the sky were flying Suggesting the he was important And his life was of interest to others. He flicked his tears And on the tile of his room floor He saw wars reproduce, He saw his children go to a new war He saw his wife coughing her years Painful looks And said to himself That life Was not my idea It is a naive game. However Let me keep on this road At the end, I may find paper For my friends to wrap me with Like the oldest statue Standing on the way of passers-by And the country!!!!!! --------------- Translated by: Em. Prof. Inaam Al-Hashimi USA * Riadh Al-Ghareeb is a poet from Iraq

Copyright © | Year Posted 2014

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