The Last Poem
I want for myself: twenty hands, A sheet of paper large as a tropical forest, A pen big as a palm-tree, A well of black ink, to write my last poem Pouring in it my anxiety, the paleness of children who exchange their school bags for beggars’ tools, their toys for shoe-shine boxes My last poem long as the night of Iraq Where I place the agonies of my homeland itched on a guillotine’s edge, And the wailing of widows and bereaved mothers. And read it from a pulpit atop a mountain Or from the electric chair waiting for my head’s arrival -Before I begin death’s slumber without nightmares-  bandages cannot smother my fires  rivers and rains can neither quench my thirst Nor drench my arid life Hand me the instruments of writing I don’t practice my freedom except on papers Let me die on my papers Let a poem be my tomb I will have no tomb in my homeland Give me the tools of writing to dig up my grave If not I shall begin my last sleep But do not close my eyes I want them to stay wide open like the door of our huts Like the hands of beggars Let them stay open To see what is darker: my grave or Iraq? For twenty years I searched in my home for my homeland Oh, If only I could gather the fragments of my corpse my frequent moves between internment camps and underground chambers of torture Scattered my memory throughout Iraq For twenty years lovers in my homeland exchanged their letters in their dreams And met each other only in funeral processions.