1 The poet wrote the title of his poem. He was tired like a severed head Alone like a desert falling into the sea Lonely like a grave waiting for a corpse Stolen by thieves. When he attempted to write his poem The head besieged him The desert surrounded him The corpse and the grave mock him And the thieves captured him very happily. 2 Time is dust. The day is straw. The hour is an ash. When the poet caught The first letter of dust The first letter of straw The first letter of ash He turned into a letter without dot, Without joy or fire. 3 I searched for my childhood in an old song. I searched for it in the date palm of Babylon. I asked Hilla’s* night about it. I found it nowhere but in the palm of a child beggar Sitting near an old bridge Reaching out his hands to the frowning passers-by. Now he laughs, then he weeps or sleeps. 4 The poet wrote his elegy. And searched for a listener but he found nobody Only the Euphrates Who listened and kissed it And concealed it within his heart: In the middle of mud and fish. 5 The woman is in the mirror. The mirror is in the bathroom. The bathroom is in the drum. The drum is in the dinar. The dinar is in poverty. Poverty is my friend Poverty is my lovers, My people and my sun. 6 The poet wrote the address of his grief As well as the address of his post box; Bankrupted to death And the phone number of his pain. That he sent to the elegant magazines and newspapers The magazines competed to publish these poems And to full them with joyful colours. But they forgot to reply To the address of the bankrupt post box And to the phone number of his great pains. *** * Hilla: An Iraqi city near old Babylon.