Grief Market

Who suggested you to go early in the morning,
To walk by yourself with no one to the grief market.

It was my decision, and I had to take the port of
Memories of the poets whom stepped in before I did.

The sailor took us on the river of tears, that was
Made by lovers weeping about being separated for ever.

My tears were dropping and burning my cheeks,
Just because I smelled my beloved Baghdad scents.

The policeman wondered why the name of Iraq
Was written in red color, I answered him it's my blood.

Since no one believed that I am Iraqi and my writing
Was based from my diary of grief, of living in Montreal.

I finally got to the grief market, where my heart
My wounded soul of watching sad and terrifying images.

I drain the water, that recalled me of the same
Boiling water that my grandpa used to drunk with his wine.

The tailor we don't have your size of a suit of joys,
Instead, we have a suit of sorrows, that appear you martyr.

The chef in restaurant offered me some free meals,
I refused to eat and said that I'm fasting until the grief market,

Change into the joys market, where I can buy my
Grave without the attention of my friends whom would miss me
Again ... Again.

1/03/2015