From a poem by Iraqi poet `Aqil `Ali (the one who was left to die on a Baghdad street because he smelled of alcohol--see post below) (my translation):
"Who was that
Who was
that who carries the eagerness
of the spinster at the
threshold of the sea
the fruits of his shoulder are
full of glasses
traveling in the traces,
counting the traps of dreams
Oh...
How passable these hills are
in their heights,
how passable are the villages
and they are with their sun
calling on you
you, the savior
how extremely low is hope
They
You loved them with all your
hopelessness
Them, who stand now
like a wall in front of you
They don't want to disentangle
from the truth of their
ownership of you
forever
mornings
This is the morning of today
like the morning of yesterday
Millions of horns
sounding within
millions of horns
You alone taught me
to grab with my hand
the bushes of knowledge
and with my other hand
its straws"