Anwer Ghani (Iraq)
Anwer Ghani is an award winner poet from Iraq. He was born in 1973 in Babylon. His name has appeared in more than fifty literary magazines and twenty anthologies in USA, UK and Asia and he has won many prizes; one of them is the “World Laureate-Best Poet in 2017 from WNWU”. In 2018 he was nominated to Adelaide Award for poetry and in 2019 he is the winner of Rock Pebbles Literary Award and the award of United Spirit of Writers Academy for Poetry. Anwer is a religious scholar and consultant nephrologist and the author of more than eighty books; thirteenth of them are in English like; “Narratolyric writing”; (2016),“Antipoetic Poems”;( 2017) and “Mosaicked Poems”; (2018), and “The Styles of Poetry”; 2019. Anwer is the editor in chief of Arcs Prose Poetry magazine.
I am neither a horse nor a hero, and when the sun kisses the ancient forests at sunset, then I realize the sweetness of a life without fences, but when all these horses stand with their heroes on my back, at that time I recall the children of our wars and realize that I am just a gray rabbit made by wars. You know, the grass is green and the horses are appealing, but who will love a gray rabbit killed by wars? For this reason, I will die alone in the darkness away from your solid walls and bitter hints. I will live in a strange horse brow, behind the walls you want. I mean beyond my heart.
The fish is pure and loves water deeply, so it dies without kissing it. Fish, on the reverse of me, only knows the truth and does nothing to live free. When blindness puts dams on the river chest, I heard the sound of a sad fish, and I saw blood. Dams are another face of absence and theft, but when you look at my face, you may know that I am a broken dam.
The beans live scattered on stormy days, and sadly calling for the absent horses. She embraces the hellish winter to give him an icy kiss. She, like me, sleeps in bare fields, planted all the wounded songs in the exotic desert. Bare beans are heirs of war, which always teach me the beauty of free death. She, like me, lives in death before she is born and lives at its end before any beginning. I see her gray spirit lonely every morning, and without delay she quietly disappears in the bitter loss every evening.