I was inspired to write this poem by a painting called, "Dreams in a War Zone" by Esam Pasha. The painting symbolized the spirit of the few Baghdadis who stayed strong despite the violence tearing their city apart. Pasha used to use his art to shelter him emotionally from the death and devastation that surrounded him.

These hands are stark white, slowly ascending,
Carrying with them, a dark brown coffin full of unspent youth,
Flying towards the reds, flying towards the yellows,
These drear white hands know what they seek,
Their familiarity with it, is however almost bizarre to consider.

These barren white hands escaped the malicious dark abyss
Containing hurt, fear, suffering and injustice,
Dreams, hopes and futures are stored in coffins,
Almost as if to say they themselves are destined to die.

Hopes are hung and futures forsaken,
Although they cry for release and shriek to be unfettered,
They just fall deeper into helplessness and confinement.
The calamitous realisation finally occurs,
The only escape and liberation,
From the bloodshed and from the violence,
Is life’s last lament, death itself.

These bleak white hands get closer,
Their fear and hope getting stronger,
Slowly approaching the greens, blues and oranges,
The love, warmth and redemption,
An aetherial light becomes visible in the distance,
These hands are arid and white no longer,
As they approach infinite love, their dreams setting them free.