I am the bird of the south
Of the plains and the hills
Of the villages and towns
Built of the stones
Of Bashiq mountain
And the white rocks
That tumbled down
The home of the olives and the matured memories
In the jar of the ancient wine
Squeezed by an old woman
Her hands lines lead always to the same temple
Eastern to Mosul where my first girlfriend of Yazidis origin lived the bright chapter of our novel
Before her family had found out
The reason of her overwhelming happiness
Before her brother had captured her reading the poems that written by a Muslim poet..
Since then, Dalia had faded away like any star in the coat of the clouds of a cold winter.
Dalia used to be my little girl..
My little princess that disappeared
Left the nation in the heart in chaos!
Left the stalls of flowers on strike from opening the doors to let the sun in
Similar to any civil disobedience happened to dissatisfied labors in the 19th century
Our love was the last rope of flowers between Mosul and Bashiq
The last bridge that links Muslims to other religions…
Seven years passed since the last white cat was witnessed roaming the old town in Mosul..
Since the last olive jars of Bashiq were sold out in the Mosuli Bazaar ..
Seven years passed since I had secretly sneaked the religion to Bashiq in order to share my Yazidis friends the homemade Bashiqi ozo..on the white mountain…
Yes ,the white mountain
On the the white mountain
That seems from Mosul as giant guard
Below, the olive trees
That send the breeze
That mixes with Dalia’s hair aroma
And her childhood tears
Although, the years
That passed like an old train
That found its way out of the novel
Into the forthcoming pain
That soon will happen to us
On the white mountain
The world looks more realistic
More similar to our internal image
We see the world has no boundaries
But, one day …
Then, ISIS swept away Bashiq from the global map ..
ISIS ruined all bars in there and brunt the sparkling olive trees…
ISIS confiscated my innocent memories..
Kidnapped my little princess
And the battle begins
Our place on Bashiq mountain that We used to sit with friends is chocked with troops
I close my eyes to protect my memories
To protect the beautiful days from outrageous scene
I turn my head and change the TV channel
In order to avoid watching my town…
encircled with fumes
I prefer to watch stories of the weather
For such the exiled people would be better
Rather than any deforming act
Because in fact
I still believe
Despite the frightening news
Killings the Yazidis in their Eve
Despite the families were displaced from their homes
Like autumn displaces the leaves
Their bed is grass and rug is the sky
And all teenager beautiful girls were taken as maid and slaves to ISIS dirty desert guy
I still believe that baboon flowers will bloom in the season
Life is like this without reason !
And sun will keep raising from Bashiq ..small town eastern to Mosul… beyond the white mountain. .. the sun wash its morning hair
Yes, the white mountain
Despite the atrocities and massacres Happened in Ninawa s plain
They couldn’t slash the brightness of the green
And demolish the farms
We still have our arms
In order to hug in case we return
Bashiq is more green than ever
As if it hasn’t been burnt
Yes, the white mountain
The white mountain is higher than we have ever seen
Bashiq is green
And will stay green
No thing has changed at any case
Dalia hasn’t abandoned her place
Her traces are still in there, her trace
The olive trees of Bashiq glows with victory!
The mountain became very white
From there all the world against ISIS is going to fight..