The world seems very fragile these days – very vulnerable. I look at people – at the trees with swaying little mangoes, at people in hospitals, markets, homes - cooking, kneading the dough, boiling rice – they seem so transient – as though pulled out of a magician’s red, yellow and black hat. They will vanish any minute – so I strain my eyes to take in their colours, shapes and rhythms. Who knows when...

Americans have done this to me – maybe to all of us on whom their freedom can descend any time. What was there won’t be anymore. Even time and space – the endless space of the desert and the waters of Tigris and Euphrates, of Shat al Arab – will be drained, charred, shriveled, smoking from their bombs. I will see black shawls, chadors of women, billowing in the scorching wind of the end of the world under a sky of perdition.

The world as we know it will end. The project of the Americans. They will smite and smite and smite – and then pull us up – mere mortals – with their steel hands. They will light our way with their explosions, with the fires with which they teach us the vanity of all living. We will go to meet our maker through the fireworks of their lethal weapons. Their pink or black faced soldiers will dance us a dance of death. `Hello’, `America good’.

As we scramble for a drop of water, they will stand still like the mirage of an oasis. Hundreds will die to get this drop. Now we will know, thanks Americans, the meaning of `holy water’.

What is that? A sound of snipers? A child – armless, faceless – rolls over bags of sand at the end of the garden. The hand lying under a flowering tree holds up a V for victory. A hand – all by itself – free of the control of the body, unattached, bombed free – operation freedom at its best.

Streets of Baghdad are ghostly streams of Hades. Embedded ones, lying on their uneasy pillows, under orders to dream freedom – must dream up words which like napalm, agent orange, conventional bombs, cluster bombs, will gut out the body and lull all pain, all recognition. The word `human’ when spoken in American has no meaning. There is No Body there. O embedded ones – in bed with killers, beasts of prey fiercer than in the animal kingdom – are you not just a wee bit uneasy? Perhaps not – after all you too lost your body. You are their first collateral damage – entering hades first, a shade among shades.

So I look at my world each time as though for the last time. I say `good-bye’ with a pain of the last look. Every word becomes the last word. My world has become groundless – lifted above in a cloudland of light shows, of words without meanings, of symbols that speak in reverse. I am living in a giant television box where CNN and BBC run their endless repetition in a plan to drive the world mad.

But in this gas chamber of lies, greed and brutality in which I am inert things intrude from outside of the frame. An arm, a leg, a head of a child, of a man or a woman – comes thundering in, flung up into my sphere by the huge wing power of the American killing machine. Voices, screams, shouts, slogans vault up into the sky. These voices ask that we recognize them, their bond with us. They beckon us beyond the American freedom into another world. My world, fragile, becomes the penultimate moment to death. Standing on that razor’s edge I wave to friends, relations and comrades. They rise up and battle the freedom of America – everywhere in the world. Someone said there are two superpowers these days – America and the protesting people of the world.