LAMEA ABBAS AMARA
*O my memories of Amara,
I hear the rockets destroying my memories.
Amara, where many rivers branch out from the Tigris.
There my life began.
In summer the sound of a single mournful flute wafts
over the sleepless rooftops.
My beloved Amara,
The home of my grandfather,
The alley of my school,
My daily walks on the banks of al-Kahla,
Even the songs have been silenced, not spared from the killing.
What hurts more is that I must pay the price of every bomb
which fell on my people.