beside the Tigris, mighty, silent, mysterious.
Witnesses say that his body protruded
from the liquid hot sand,
his face was a mask, a misleadingly golden hue
in the never-setting sun.
Others say that my father resurrected.
One can see him stumbling down the deserted streets
wearing dark sunglasses
escorted by combat Hummers from machine-gun turrets,
escorted by easy -on -the -trigger -boys
(What a lie! BANG BANG! BUM BUM!)
Legend tells my father died
when the huge Erbas E300 Air France crashed into the Atlantic ocean, the most modern aircraft and the pride of the French company.
The ocean whispers he never flew by plane.
Somewhere in the background, I can hear their booming voices: He died dressed in a camouflage uniform of the Iraqi Revolutionary Guard with a glint of the sun on the epaulettes.
He still had a desire to live; at least until the moment he pounces his plane on a selected target and joins the virgins in Paradise.
But the witnesses do swear that he, a martyr – suicide, casually pulled the plug to open the cabin, once, twice, three …
“Damn bastard” – he thought at the time – “Again, there is no electricity! It must be that the fuse under the dash burnt out
once again. The last one we had.”
(Can you imagine that?)
An aircraft runway in front of him has become heated, sand around it shimmers with a bluish light. Across the sky, dark clouds began to spring.
There are rumours he went mad before his death.
He saw the figure of an old woman dressed in mourning dress at the site of the automatic pilot, a contrast to her unreal pale face as if she were immersed in water for days.
He froze in horror while she was silently watching him with empty eye sockets.
“Open the box.” – She said, this time it was a deep voice without emotion. “There’s a picture inside.”
A few seconds later,
scorched dismembered parts of human bodies were scattered miles around. Tormented by madness he died in hysteria, alternately he laughing and shaking with fear
(This is catchy, I give them that!)
In unison voices, they baptized their Gentleman testifying before the global audience:
there was a body of a child, it sailed to the surface,
there was an intact body of a wrinkled old woman with eyes closed, as if asleep, her face pale almost white, her hands turned blue from the water. Beside the corpses swam a black box.
There was a picture inside.
The old lady was me.
The picture was mine.
(I do not know even what to say..
What an imagination!)
They say my father blew himself up with a bomb somewhere, besides the Tigris, mighty, mighty, silent, silent-
Oh so mysterious,
witnesses say that his body protruded from the liquid hot sand, his face was a mask a misleadingly golden hue.
After all, who cares if the bastard died?
I believe none these stories, do you, Father?
You Father, you murderer, you Father, you murderer.