Oh umm Yabbar
Oh umm Yabbar, do you remember?
You used to tell me things about your friends and laugh,
About fish ”in Ali al Garbi”, and how you sowed.
About how you swam in lakes.
You brought me up, and told me things about Al Aamara for years,
And today you told me about your son, Yabbar.
That one you are still wondering about.
What did he do to be tortured?
That beloved son, so worth in my own eyes,
What was his fault to be torn apart?
And you ask me the value of the bullets you used to kill him?
Which law, which tradition, do you follow that you even
Steal his money?
Oh Kathima, pray for his soul and bury him,
Call your maternal uncles, to wash (perform ritual ablutions) and shroud him.
Is this his blood? Or were the angels who, with henna, painted him?
You gathered his remains, this was that hand he once caressed my head with love.
Then I kissed his arm.
What a tragedy!, it was burned.
His beloved Zina cries for him. She looks for your pupils,
May God’s curse fall upon them,
Where is your face?
Were you disfigured?
Your family?, is your people who now kills him?
No, they are made of different clay; they do not belong to Iraq,
They want to kill my pigeon.
The white dove you gave me.
They stab her and stab you
Sleep darling, to rest.
Because there is people who will take revenge for you.
And will support you.
You dared to curse him, He who was the symbol of the youth?
You burn him even if he is our fatherland?
Give me my son, I want to smell him.
I see him laugh and I hug him.
He hugs his daughters, and I am next to him.
Do you see him?
You, filth, the one who killed him.
I am not sad for you, repugnant,
Do you know why?
Because you are that one God ordered about: catch him! Handcuff him!
And throw him in hell.
Thanks God, he has soothed my soul, I will sleep in peace, and my son will sleep in my arms.
I would love that Iraq were all the earth, and all the earth were Iraq.
You used to tell me things about your friends and laugh,
About fish ”in Ali al Garbi”, and how you sowed.
About how you swam in lakes.
You brought me up, and told me things about Al Aamara for years,
And today you told me about your son, Yabbar.
That one you are still wondering about.
What did he do to be tortured?
That beloved son, so worth in my own eyes,
What was his fault to be torn apart?
And you ask me the value of the bullets you used to kill him?
Which law, which tradition, do you follow that you even
Steal his money?
Oh Kathima, pray for his soul and bury him,
Call your maternal uncles, to wash (perform ritual ablutions) and shroud him.
Is this his blood? Or were the angels who, with henna, painted him?
You gathered his remains, this was that hand he once caressed my head with love.
Then I kissed his arm.
What a tragedy!, it was burned.
His beloved Zina cries for him. She looks for your pupils,
May God’s curse fall upon them,
Where is your face?
Were you disfigured?
Your family?, is your people who now kills him?
No, they are made of different clay; they do not belong to Iraq,
They want to kill my pigeon.
The white dove you gave me.
They stab her and stab you
Sleep darling, to rest.
Because there is people who will take revenge for you.
And will support you.
You dared to curse him, He who was the symbol of the youth?
You burn him even if he is our fatherland?
Give me my son, I want to smell him.
I see him laugh and I hug him.
He hugs his daughters, and I am next to him.
Do you see him?
You, filth, the one who killed him.
I am not sad for you, repugnant,
Do you know why?
Because you are that one God ordered about: catch him! Handcuff him!
And throw him in hell.
Thanks God, he has soothed my soul, I will sleep in peace, and my son will sleep in my arms.
I would love that Iraq were all the earth, and all the earth were Iraq.
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