Amman-Baghdad

The buses have all gone. We are left alone with the oil stained pavement and the taste of cardamom.

Amman - when will you deserve your pale white stone, your thin air and your two million refugees?

Mercenaries grow old here, skin hangs to muscle and bone. Oily stares that hope for nothing.

Our black wing passes over the crescent moon. We dive into the darkness of Baghdad.