Poetry

July 8, 2016 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

David Taylor

 

By

Ahmad Al-khatat

 

 

 

The Last Dialogue Before Killing Iraq

 

 

Two gunmen were on the ground wounded,

Both have weapons without any courage to

Shoot one or another to death anymore.

 

None of them were talking but only praying,

Perhaps they both had similar beliefs in God,

And they both were raised from the same city.

 

The solider from the national army started saying:

I wish to kill you like the way my brother died,

Leaving behind a wife and kids crying for him.

 

The Isis fighter responded without any fear:

I know you want to shoot me but I also desire

To know what happened to my missing parents.

 

The solider said: your mother blew herself up,

When my mother was going to donate coins,

And buying a gift for your little sister’s birthday.

 

The fighter said: and my father went to prison,

Stayed in jail for long months with cancer,

While he was innocent from all due charges.

 

The solider cried and said with a high tone,

Your father destroyed my family in tiny pieces,

He bombed our house during my father’s sickness.

 

The fighter laughed and said that wasn’t your

Home, it was my grand parent’s house to us

And your family stole it without an intention.

 

The solider: but your grandparents burnt down,

My grandparent’s tiny cottage and the farm too,

And left them poor till they died poor and miserable.

 

The fighter: do you remember my beautiful sister,

She was assaulted and abused by your brother,

Who ended up raping her till she died innocently.

 

The solider laughed: you don’t recall everything:

Your sister she died after she betrayed my sister,

To your men whom they tortured till her last breath.

 

The fighter with fears: is your brother still alive,

Cause I think I have killed him with cold blood knife,

He died and said you will kill me after his funeral.

 

The solider faced down: will we stop creating

More bloody rivers from north to west of Iraq,

Somehow we pray and we kill like a human Satan.

 

The fighter with fears: will we be forgiven or

We will die like sheep in the middle of the desert,

Our mind and soul is full of hate and confusion.

 

The solider said: if you shoot me dead now,

My beloved will weep till she gets blind with

The wind till she finds the scent of my flesh.

 

The fighter said: and if you shoot me now

Martyrs will have joy and the sky will drop

Of joyful rain, upon the homes of darkness.

 

The solider said: the farmer can hold and

Be patient for a greater year with more grains,

So I think is the time to change for good.

 

The fighter pulled the trigger and shot

His mind to die, while the solider started

Digging a grave to this fighter so before

 

The hungry dogs and wolfs eat his body,

And gladly it was not the last dialog before

Before killing Iraq, and Iraqis are always powerful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For The Very First Time

 

 

For the very first time,

When grief hugged me,

I knew I was an old soul,

Worth noting to anyone.

 

I died without being loved,

I realized I was just a king,

Without friends or family,

But poetry was my knight.

 

He was like the dusty book,

Except he writes me down,

While I can’t do but crying,

Like a dog running for zero.

 

I decided to write about you,

Even if you are already hiding,

Or sleeping with somebody else,

Perhaps you will come back.

 

But you didn’t have to go away,

The sea will always be salty as

Your lies and your mankind tears,

Don’t waste time with a writer.

 

Go seek the happy memories,

Where you will be laughing alone,

When you will be loving him more,

Realizing that we were never friends.

 

While I spent the nights lonely and

Drunk by the scent of your clothes,

Dancing with the wind of your songs,

Who died once I wrote love songs.

 

And those songs were playing on,

While a hundred men were touching

And kissing your dirty flesh with a soul

And eyes regretting my pure emotions.

 

For the very first time, I will dance

And dance with a beautiful wife of

My lifetime, supporting my little girl

To sing of my love and misery songs.

 

Where the sun and the moon will

Weep without the need of clouds,

Even the birds will learn to appreciate

More then you, since you stabbed love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ahmad Al-khatat

I was born in Baghdad on May 8th (1989). From Iraq, I came to Canada at the age of 10, the same age when I wrote my very first poem back in the year 2000. I currently study Political Sciences, and move on to study Journalism at the Concordia University in Montreal.

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