Al-Anfal

The fading golden peacocks have now stopped their ceaseless flight.

The hands of universal clock are leaping to and fro.

The orphaned people is devoured by tearless barren land –

contaminated, poisoned, swallowing the brutal air.

 

On senseless cold white tiles the brittle girl lied like a rag –

one-handed, suffocating, yet still murmuring: “Good Lord!”

Her eyes were pale like pearls and cold like dying stranded fish.

The cogless wheels that were turning in them have crushed her life.

 

“Deliver us!” – we beg the lofty-winged dark angel and

the dead and empty orb of wrathful sun that drinks the globe.

Behold our souls dissolve in countless howl of storms and dunes.

The cackling sands will be the only ones who memorize.