“Forty years are like a single day if you let the wind pass over theman do not say no …” B. Brecht, “ In the Jungle of Cities ” No I will wake - and dream build a wind trap, a trap of Sinter and humming sand. No longer does the wind pass though hair an ribs, where, sated of hunger and weary of toil, a YES ripens year by year. NO There I want nothing but do devour beauty words and from the words strip the skin, and from the skin the skin. What remains shall ripen under the sun. Baghdad I understand nothing, nothing at all, not the journey from the airport to the hotel, or the sleeping behemoths batting their eyelash prayers, or the moon over Baghdad calling...