One Hundred Pure Mandaean Rosary Poems

When I assume that thinking is south of the maps,
And I love when I need a kiss that teaches my tongue to recite the liturgies of dictionaries of longing.
When my pillows daydream of Caesar's flank and the knife.
Do you remember your thoughts, Miss Teresa?
The day you gathered the Mandaeans at the train luggage.
One remained weeping there.
In a forgotten cell in the Nasiriyah Security Department.
And when the first of them arrived in Oklahoma,
Our Mandaean mother wept like a dove near the fragrant pot, because she knew that the first would draw the second.
The third is the grave of my friend Shafiq Badri Qamar,
now buried in a cemetery in the Netherlands.
His grave is guarded by a noble group of tulips
And the blessings of his noble sheikh.