Baghdad (prose poem) - edit 1

[ritwiksadhu33]

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.

Hi vagabond,
Sorry for the extremely late reply: been a bit busy with coursework lately. The vagueness around the walls was intended: it refers to city walls as well as the walls in the narrator's mind. Of course, it might be too much in a poem that is already heavily symbolic. Let me know if it felt so. As for any other symbolism/deeper meanings, I pm'd them to you but you can also see below.

The poem essentially centres around how the Middle East, as a whole, has been embroiled in violence since time immemorial, with cities falling and rising, and the people being thrown from one place to the other. The first line is a play on the first line of a famous couplet by Kabir: " When I was, Hari was not/ Now that Hari is, I am not". The narrator is a poet, who has migrated to Baghdad from his ancestral village, perhaps in search of renown or simply a better life. Yet in this transition he has lost his muse - in the opulent, dirty, heartless life of the city, his sense of beauty is lost. Most of the images relate to this - beheading of a boy thief (untimely death of his creativity), rotten melons as a last hearty meal before death (instead of happiness, now what comes out of pen is only the last gulp of soured wine - a beautiful lament, but not the natural flowering of words in serene happiness), etc. What remains is merely his sorrow, speaking out with a hint of bitterness and sarcasm.