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Gently, the snow was falling and the village road frosted with sweet whiteness. The plum trees, the icicles were freezing. The spring water had become a garden of ice, the blue vase had been cracked. The white beard man, the snow landscape was catching his eye and
he was singing a winter chant and the admirable snowman with his soft arms kept a fire burning
and figs were boiling in a pot.
The white smoke of the fireplaces
was rising up from the madhouse's chimneys and
the children had white dreams.
Shivering sparrows in cold
were cuddling together under the eaves the snowflakes like butterfly, were gently fluttering to the ground. © Diyar Latif
Translator: Daliya Raouf Diyar Latif came to life in 1989. He is a poet, journalist, writer, Peshmerga, as well as an activist, and works in literary meetings. He is a resident at the Town of Kfri, in the Iraqi Kurdistan region. The works in each of the (Plastic Land) books are poems. He has published a literary research book titled, 'Title and Text.' His last published book in in partnership with a literary meeting titled, 'Modern Poetry and Some Margins.'

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