Wasan H. Ibrahim
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Wasan H. Ibrahim Poems
Paradise of Love
In my belief Love is the spiritual beam, The beautiful dream The lovely tune of pure, unending stream,
I Can Dream No More
Oh, Dream Nothing is true, or to say for sure… Yet, I can dream no more. Although reality I abhor
تمردتُ على الموتِ واسمعت الأنام من صدى همسي تمردت على الأوطان أيا وطني
Not Paved Yet
The taxi has walked up… the taxi has walked down On this very Earth not on the moon With every car quaking he was uttering bad words 'Riffraff, rogues, villains, morons'
في العراق ليس هناك شعار للحياة بل سباق أمنيات نتمنى...نتمنى...ومن ثم نتمنى
في طابور التفتيش
مرت ساعات وساعات ونحن ننتظر في طابور التفتيش كنا نحاول الوصول الى حيث نعيش
*- -*Detached*- -*
Whether life is a blessing, whether life is a curse, Whether we march in progression or in regress, I feel nothing of its glimpse, I don't feel attuned, I don't sense its tempo, hypo or profound.
ذلك جسد هامدٌ يحكي كل الأسرار عن انسان كان يوماً تناثر أشلاءً في قلب انفجار عن حلم بالحياة و بالنهار
Knowledge is the pair of wings To the eternity makes us fly… Knowledge is the gem of wits That lifts us to the borders of the sky
Retreated Love So Long Ago
I've never realized In my devoted march towards success The dead hours I've left behind Leaving them undefended, unconsidered in relapse.
I remember thee In every corner of my years, I remember thee In the light of my smiles
Can You Draw Her?
Can you draw her? A princess comes out of dreams, With her angelic face, Her golden locks and colorful laces;
Apology to My Country: To Whom I Confess...
I wonder whether you'll read this or not, I once told you the whole plot Of love, waiting and yearning And a life has been lost.
Fashion New: Iraq after War and Invasion
My country is changing for new Everything is modern in saturation and hue Red and black for blood and blow Guns are the new-children-game instead of seesaw
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Paradise of Love
In my belief
Love is the spiritual beam,
The beautiful dream
The lovely tune of pure, unending stream,
It is the singing nightingale
Composing a symphony
That even the deaf can hear
It is the spoiled child who grows
In the spring of flowery years
It is the star, glittery and bright
That shines in the dimness of the sad heart
And the yearning eyes roving left and right
Waiting for the whole moon to appear
Sealing a kiss over the long-years-waiting hair
It is the sea that reworks the pearls
Of the bottoms a bracelet, unique and rare.
Take my hand...