Hassan Al-Dhafiri (Prepared Angela Kosta)
Moderator 
Hassan Al-Dhafiri - Iraq
ASHES REMAINS
A visual night draped in a dark cloak, anticipating from above the banks of fear what will come and who will not come to reveal the splendor of its beauty lying and extending along the shores of the Shatt al-Arab, where the moon, like eyes that travel every day to paint a picture of (Al-Liwa) in the labyrinths of stillness, searching for wide spaces behind the wreckage of the rejected past.
Moaning in the agony of oppression, the groan of a shy beggar stealing his strength from the darkness of the night, the garbage scattered in the alleys of an old street whose luster was eaten away by the darkness, so he returned forgotten, beautifying himself on the crutches of death without screaming, and the drums of the popular bands and the hammers of the blacksmiths (Yahya Jawad), (Al-Mutarab Al-Zaidi), and (Tahseen Al-Awad) steal his slumber. On its sides, shops are distributed, intertwined and disparate, searching for a sidewalk. (Al-Katana Street) has begun to strip itself, shedding the fatigue of the days through the artistic interweaving of the symphony of rain and waterfalls. Water falling from the roofs of the adjacent houses, which are squeezed by gutters here and there, and the smell of damaged wood from the effects of (Al-Remaz) pollutes the air. There is a rustle. A shoe makes sounds, ridden by a man who staggers as usual from the intensity of his pain. The obsession of night and loneliness cuts through the formed oases of water, and it seeps behind him. Silver lines of water, his hand a blackboard on which he wrote all the symbols of the backward past. The clock is midnight, and lightning draws vague lines. It reminds me of an old story (The Two Coughing Marriages). I grew up with it, and I was happy to tell it to my peers in conversation class. As soon as the teacher finished telling it, he smiled and patted me on the shoulder, repeating (Fables, Fables). There is no one among us who understands this to ask him about its meaning. He continued walking deep into the street without caring. He slaughtered his fear and relieved his sadness. The sounds no longer frightened him. He leaned his back against the dark wall, tasting the drops of water falling from the ends of his hair. He started a conversation. Do you remember? How were you? He answers his question! The most beautiful of women is yours, the whiteness of cotton, your look arouses majesty. The soul holds dozens of emotions. Your eyes are two lakes still in a snowy universe. Your hair on your forehead (like threads of night) hangs (on the brow of morning). You captivate men. You have become a withered flower from how many eyes have stolen it. He stopped talking and turned his gaze towards her, and she trembled. His limbs lifted. He said, "Rain." ••• Rain, oh clouds! It came a little closer to her. •••• But she didn't understand his language, but she liked it. He grabbed her arm. Let's leave this place. She felt the desire to do so. The sidewalk guided them. •••• They reached the inn, whose door never closed. They entered his room. He threw himself into the arms of his humble rug. He coughed sharply. She also placed her head on his knees after she made him rest completely on her alternate arms. She looked at him very carefully. He moved in a different position to take out the matchbox. He threw it down, saying, "Gather whatever you find from the room's rubbish so we can light a fire." They felt warm and relaxed a little. She also snuggled up next to him after feeling reassured about him until they became one body. Each of them pulled a piece of coal from the remains of the ashes, wrote a phrase, and fell into a deep sleep.
Prepared Angela Kosta
