Unsuccessful Film Poem by Fadhil Al Azzawi

In the movie house of my bleeding soul,
lying back on my dream - couch,
I see myself in a film running daily in eternity.
It is snowing. This is Petersburg,
glorious in its rags singing alone in the dark.
Carriages with sleepy horses trot past leisurely,
and along the sidewalksdrunks are hunting prostitutes.
I am in a tavern, on the table a bottle of vodka.
From my corner I see Raskolnikov,
a German cap on his head,
wrapped in his tattered overcoat,
shuffle along, followed by his greedy widows,
to pawn his bloody hatchet with me.
Near a bus stop in a public square crowded with tourists
Hamlet suddenly appears. He grabs my hand:
"I pray thee, poet, write my story anew, I am a man,
take me for all in all and let me be happy again."
Opening his heart, confessing his foolish scruples
that croak in his head like a crow in his castle in
Denmark: "I am thy father's spirit; doom'd for a
certain term to walk the night," he asks me
to free him from his father's ghost.
At the gateway of forgotten Ur-zaqura
I hear the cry of Enkido, carried by the dead in a boat
crossing seas of firebrand and burning water
on their way to the underworld. I see Gilgamesh
emerge out of a crack in the wall of my cold house
like a friend, lost for centuries, now coming back:
"Let us go together! Be my guide!"
So we go deep into the forest looking for the deceiver serpent
that stole his magic plant.
Figures in tales and epics told to the children.
Figures of wars that had been won and others lost.
Figures made of tin to be sold in the brass market.
Figures of straw (all they need is a matchstick).
Figures for decoration in festivals.
Figures to be remembered,
Figures to be forgotten.
Vagabonds, villains, philosophers and kings,
generals, wise men and poets,
all come to me as shadows, escaped from their time-traps
to enter my heart.
They come one by one and knock at my door.
Confused, I open and welcome them.
Oh, damn, how I did myself in this valley of the dead?
Who led these souls to my gloomy house?
Oh, this is not my story, Oh I am not God
to carry the sins of mankind on my shoulders.
But as often happens, I get up, harrowed with fear and wonder,
I grope blindly at the light switch and see myself in the world again.
Outside in the street, I hear the trees
singing for me in the wind.
Thank God!, I say to myself, now I can sleep in peace
and forget this unsuccessful film.