There's a tattoo on my memory,

Of a burning fire lit plight,

And the feeling still that haunts me,

Taken from Baghdad in the night.
 

A horrid postcard it would make,

This desolate groaning hell,

A land bereft of wonder,

Of singing, or of bells.
 

My mind it floats and dances,

Above these desert sands,

Where years of fear and bloody tears,

Have shared their lonely romance.
 

When I watched it from above,

I did but once to think of love,

About the face of ivory white,

That I've kissed on better nights.
 

But this is one I say again,

That stretches on without an end,

And peering outward at the din,

I turn inside, and weep within.
 

What a dole postcard indeed,

This city view at night,

A more morose and somber scene,

Will never take its flight.
 

The specters dance on my eye of green,

Such a technologic wonder,

Such things as these are never seen,

Save for those who rend asunder.

Even here from story eight,

You can hear the wild dogs barking,

The radio cackles its dim hiss,

And the night is only starting.
 

Not beauty here that I have found,

Only waste and blowing grit,

The garbage and the empty streets,

Lay alone beneath the stars.
 

I'm glad I'll never see in print,

A postcard Baghdad night,

As it would bring too many things,

Without any need to write.