Baghdad (prose poem) - edit 1

[vagabond]

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.

Baghdad

When I had a golden quill I had no words to give, so I pawned it away at a shop on Mutanabbi street. The bearded man handed me a bronze token bearing a caged silverbill, plate of dates in front. The money was obedient. In the evening I and my beloved watched the beheading of a boy thief. A hawker sold pinwheels in the crowd.

When my garden had no fruits I gave it water. Like a demon, it left me dry. The river dragged the days downstream.
Tigris, crude mother, your blessings upon the world. Every day we moved, a city tottering on the camel's back.  To the southeast lay Ctesiphon, empty. To the north, Samarra, empty again. As we had herded our sheep the mountains herded us - good flock, bad flock, wolf bait. Here lie the bricks of the House of Wisdom. Here the bricks of the Golden Gate. Here lies regret. Caution. Au revoir. The next time we will build a house without history.

i like the changes you made (EVEN the money was MORE obedient, we pick them up again, au revoir, MOTHER).

the only nit i´d find would be: "i left it behind for THESE walls" (which walls, walls were not mentioned before, or should at least be specified - city walls? walls of a room?).
i believe there´s  much more in your poem than i am able to understand (and i´d appreciate if you explained via PM), but from what i get now i wouldn´t want you to change your poem because it´s beautiful as it is.
the last line is an opener to thoughts into many directions.