Burnt flowers in this garden Corps commander in the Iraqi army Purple Kuchs for the horror of sticks A lifetime of melting a hot season
Sauce Life with bitter and spicy taste A saw in the mouth with rhythms The bomb was a bomb The shop poet was constantly sealed The wall was not a wall. The sound of every woman was a song in her blood
but the torture was not steadily She kidnap the Sattar in front of us
Now that the confusion is now drunk with me? My head
See me where the minefield is The missing blood is in God We go on the rope Interpretation of our poetry and mushroom
Sometimes their razor was with stylish cotton Response to my question Was not he was abducted in front of our eyes.
