If I Were An Iraqui Poet

If I were an iraqui poet,
with an ironic sense of humor,
living in Baghdad,
here is what I would write:

A spot of rain slithers
down my window pane:
it is an awful pain, when
the rain wets my pane;
not enough to go insane,
but it blurs
on a good day,
the purity of my perception
which makes it possible
to see
the lilies of the valley
in their glorous sunlit moment
when the light surprises,
and the early dew rises,
and imperceptibly flows
into the mist, guided
by nature’s tender kiss.

Let this perfect moment
not be marred,
but be a shield
of soundless fury
when my window pane is–
crystal clear of rain–
but there is something
insane
(and I see it in my mind’s eye)
and it exists in the brain
of those
who dream of a bomb
shattering lives,
in a savage war,
and after the
conquest is made,
and the consequences rise,
and here is another
surprise–
who is to say
the evil will not be
multiplied?

by murray Kaufman