My land is used to the dead
And messages from them received,
But it is not in the habit of seeing
Live Messengers going out.
My land knows well the dead names
Inscribed in cuneiform on stones,
But gets angry at the river that
Takes away its living things.
My land is used to the blood
Covering its arid body;
It finds it the best way to quench
Its hungry sand belly.
But it hates to see the blood
Returning to the veins of its beings
For only one goal and one goal only
To leave the numb curse of its womb.
It is perhaps the reason why
In my land when thousands die,
No-one cries for no-one’s sake
But when from it some-one goes
A thousand hearts silently break.
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