Under the sun of suns,

in the oppressive heat of wisdom and glory of thirst,

my tongue wanted to remove an old rust accumulated on the name of Iraq.

Iraq is a word I cannot say.

It is said by a Mandaean young man two waters are alternating to heal him from epilepsy.

It is said by a blonde Chaldean the feathers of his pillow are taken from a poor angel.

A word that befits a Kurdish woman fornicated in the darkness of a cave and her lamp is virtuous.

But if I say it and its talisman is knitted in my tongue,

it is because that I’ve inherited- in the blood clots- too much air for them.

I also got breath of their fresh thunderbolts mixed with the sigh of human and his savage nudity.

In the frail of their pottery,

I’ve inherited a planetary delight,

and horror,

in the banquets of mud left here,

under the sun of suns.

That was in the very old times;

before the coming of the first Bedouins.

Before he burns his tenet and sterile his horse.

His horse;

the attacker,

the retreated,

the comer from the rear,

the comer from the front, ⁽¹⁾

in the oppressive heat of wisdom and glory of thirst.