THREE POEMS
- أنور غني الموسوي
- Sep 30, 2025
- 1 min read
Red December
You sit there, on this branch with my dream, but I cannot see your beauty because my eyes are soaked in the redness of December. I am a red man from the land of wars; my blood is shed and my soul is broken. No flowers here, no spring, just red December.
THE CITY OF DEATH
The world is getting smaller; his bones are devoured by bad smells. No, the truth is a smile of beauty, but this civilization is nothing but a city of death.
A BIG KNOWER
The lily of the lake when it dawns, I see it, even though I sleep on a blind pillow. How many comers told me about distant worlds, but without pain I forgot my stories and sat in the corner like a futile dream.
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