Three Cities, Seven Dancers, Eleven Curse Poem by Ilham Q Moehiddin

There is a shallow wadi lined. Weeds make up the yellow sand to the base. I lowered my saddle has, momentarily lost weight, was thirsty. Who would make up the saddle, it is the price of his position. Orange velvet bordered with gold, like cedar trees flanking the sky.

A rover of Basrah came last night, as he tells me nuts almond herbs. He does not like coffee, then I fill the cup with chicory. Tell me the way: has he came seven cities, in which there are seven towers, in each tower, there are seven women to dance. Each dancer hum seven kinds of spells, each spell, inserted eleven curse, the curse was eleven, I found my name. Yes, my name, in one hundred and thirty-eight spelling.

Really, how far it travels. I fill in the chicory cup, like going, gone dark as night to the morning light. He said: saddle your horse must be roped, remove the leather upholstery, and hang his gold lace.

He's not going to Basra. The city has claimed three longing. In the umpteenth encounter, docked rivers, mountains, back to back, on the degree of fragility, he makeup of the dust cup. If the tongue along the throat, will not escape the lie of the mouth, he who deserted at the first moment, he was quiet on the efflux. I did give him Chicory, that's actually almond nut is my poison.