I am the poet who survived from a destructing volcano, erupted in the town
My words are written with ash upon my skin.
Despite all pain and hurricane
I am the only one who didn’t drown
The crosser of the sea without boat.. I walk on liquid surfaces and I don’t go down
I am the only person in this town, whose eyes are forest of a city called Mosul, whose eyes despite all wars, they’re still brown
I am the only person in the town
Who got to smuggle an Eastern café to Europe, who managed to smuggle the aroma of memories
My lungs are stuffed with desert..
My thoughts are giant trees
My face is extension to my hometown’s features
My palm’s lines are narrow alleys,
lead to my grandfather’s house in the old city.. close to a minaret called “Hadba”