العراق O free spirits of the world, witness the wounds of the grieving, shattered mother, Mariam Alsayegh & the crimes of the thief Fatma Naoot against her

O free spirits of the world, witness the wounds of the grieving, shattered mother, Mariam Alsayegh
and the crimes of the thief Fatma Naoot against her, stealing her anguished emotions for the loss of her child and lament for Baghdad.
 
 
Fatma Naoot A thief steals the tears of a mother over her infant’s grave
what heart could bear such vileness?
The Iraq War, a fire consuming souls, blood watering a land that knows no peace.
An enslaved homeland groans beneath the chains of humiliation, its spirit led to exile.
Among the ignorant and deceived, the poem chants truth, amidst thieves dividing the scant remains.
 
A poem from the collection
)My Enslaved Homeland(,
published before the invention of the town thief
a hollow, ignorant fraud
and her release into a decayed realm of thieves and fools.
 
 
Hymns of a Feather: Between Baghdad’s Lament and the Dream of Love
While the dream weeps with a feather
plucked from my beloved’s wing,
upon Baghdad’s walls,
my conscience rises,
whispering to it:
 
"They despise melody, my love,
and fear the free song in our chests.
That is why...
they aim their arrows
at our defenseless wings
before the dawn."
 
Until their stones crumble,
turning to feathers... and dreams,
so I may never soar
to where your voice
sings above the trees.
Come, my love!
 
They have spent night after night
weaving bars of iron,
arsenals of lead,
paving the sorrowed earth
with reinforced concrete,
so they may forge a prison
worthy of my thoughts,
my madness,
my defiance…
 
Hymns of a Feather: Between Baghdad’s Lament and the Dream of Love
While the dream weeps with a feather
plucked from my beloved’s wing,
upon Baghdad’s walls,
my conscience rises,
whispering to it:
 
"They despise melody, my love,
and fear the free song in our chests.
That is why...
they aim their arrows
at our defenseless wings
before the dawn."
 
Until their stones crumble,
turning to feathers... and dreams,
so I may never soar
to where your voice
sings above the trees.
Come, my love!
 
They have spent night after night
weaving bars of iron,
arsenals of lead,
paving the sorrowed earth
with reinforced concrete,
so they may forge a prison
worthy of my thoughts,
my madness,
my defiance…
 
The Rebellion of My Thoughts
The rebellion of my thoughts
takes flight despite them…
and despite me,
soaring beyond the veils,
toward the highest heavens.
 
Did the wise not tell them
that a slender thread of silk
would have sufficed
to bind my wrist,
to break my wing?
 
Did those with knowledge
not inform them
that a mere pebble
from their arching bows,
carving its path toward my heart,
would have sufficed
for the resolve they so stubbornly pursued?
 
Had they only known…
they would have spared
tons of iron,
sacks of cement,
for the poor,
who might have built homes,
huts
to shield their bare bodies
from the lashes
of the freezing scourge...
But instead,
they erected prisons,
and graves,
and walls of terror,
to imprison even the breeze!
 
 
But They, My Love...
But they, my love,
loathe music,
and so... my whispered words to you enrage them,
and they strangle the melody in my throat.
Rescue me, O distant lover,
bring your lyre,
and sing for me...
a song that sets the ashes in my chest aflame,
a song that revives a long-delayed dream,
"Yet it was never lost from my heart!"
 
O ruthless jailers,
save your dungeons of darkness
for the blood-spillers,
the murderers of dreams,
and spare me your iron shackles,
which are better suited
for the thieves of minds,
the plunderers of nations.
 
Do not brandish your swords before me,
for I have no need of them,
to slaughter myself!
 
You would kill me—
just a mere word,
escaping from a grim mouth
that has never loved music!
 
O ruthless jailers,
grant me but a moment,
until April passes,
so I may honor the memory of my infant daughter,
who drifted to sleep
before her laughter had fully bloomed.
 
She left behind her twin,
alone,
searching for her in an empty cradle,
calling out for her
in the silence of the night,
but hearing nothing
except the wind,
whispering to his breathless sighs...
instead of milk!
 
And a vow,
I shall come to you willingly,
blindfolded,
not with chains of iron,
but with a leaf binding my wrists,
or a green palm frond,
as if I were going
to welcome the triumphant savior!
 
Upon my back,
I carry a satchel,
holding my thoughts,
which will fly, soaring
through the cracks of concrete walls,
to where
your hands may reach them...
but never grasp them!
 
And then you ask where my heart has gone—
I placed it in my beloved’s hand
when he accepted,
to turn it into a feather
that plays the tune of longing,
telling Baghdad tales of yearning.
 
Amidst the ruins,
a light has begun to shine;
the soul of nations
never dies nor fades away.
And no matter how harsh the days may be,
a new dawn will remain,
rising with warmth and echoing hope.
 
And if the night tightens,
and heavy silence takes hold,
the palm trees shall one day sing of departure.
 
So do not ask about my heart,
for I left it behind before I came,
in the hand of my beloved,
in Baghdad,
to turn it into a feather
that he may pluck
on his lyre,
so that its melodies may soar
above the ruins of your tyranny!