03-04-2018, 03:04 AM
Baghdad (edit 1)
When I had a golden quill, I had no words. So I pawned it at a shop on Mutanabbi street. The bearded man at the counter handed me a bronze token, bearing a caged silverbill with a plate of dates in front. I threw it away. Even the money was more obedient. It flew without collar, fetching roadkill for food, sometimes throwing me a morsel. In the evening I and my beloved watched the beheading of a boy thief. As he was walked to the block, an avalanche of rotten melons greeted him - a last hearty meal, a premature invitation to the flies. A hawker sold pinwheels in the crowd. I thought back to the windmill in my village, and father's orchards.
When my garden had no fruits I gave it water. Like a demon, it left me dry. One day I left it behind for these walls, and became quieter. The river dragged my days downstream.
Tigris, crude mother, your blessings upon the world. You have taken our anchors, and for that you have our gratitude. Every moment we move, a city bound to the camel's back. To the southeast lies Ctesiphon, empty; to the north, Samarra, empty again. As we had herded our sheep, the mountains herd us. Here lie the bricks of the House of Wisdom; here, the bricks of the Golden Gate. We pick them up again. Here lies regret, caution. Au revoir, mother. The next time we will build a house without history.
When I had a golden quill, I had no words. So I pawned it at a shop on Mutanabbi street. The bearded man at the counter handed me a bronze token, bearing a caged silverbill with a plate of dates in front. I threw it away. Even the money was more obedient. It flew without collar, fetching roadkill for food, sometimes throwing me a morsel. In the evening I and my beloved watched the beheading of a boy thief. As he was walked to the block, an avalanche of rotten melons greeted him - a last hearty meal, a premature invitation to the flies. A hawker sold pinwheels in the crowd. I thought back to the windmill in my village, and father's orchards.
When my garden had no fruits I gave it water. Like a demon, it left me dry. One day I left it behind for these walls, and became quieter. The river dragged my days downstream.
Tigris, crude mother, your blessings upon the world. You have taken our anchors, and for that you have our gratitude. Every moment we move, a city bound to the camel's back. To the southeast lies Ctesiphon, empty; to the north, Samarra, empty again. As we had herded our sheep, the mountains herd us. Here lie the bricks of the House of Wisdom; here, the bricks of the Golden Gate. We pick them up again. Here lies regret, caution. Au revoir, mother. The next time we will build a house without history.