Look at these people
Laughing at meeting
Crying for loss
Shouting for money
Smiling for children
Giving to the poor and the blind
Stay just one more minute
And you’ll see 10 billion souls
Coming in and out of the station
With their own histories
Their fights, their occupations
Their colonizations, their monarchies
Their flags blowing lonely
Signifying something that does not give or take
And their ancestors
Heavily placed on their shoulders
Their tanned skins under the R’zza or
The New York Yankees
Imagine for their families and their friends
Their good natures and bad natures
The food they need to eat
The drink they need to drink
The shoe cleaner will look only at your shoes
An – 8 – year – old will ask for a dirham
Tell him to come back later
And he will definitely come back
For a dirham or for a quarter
And for that small green coin
Or perhaps for the gesture
He will finally smile like an-8-year-old should
But he will look into your eyes with his hands placed on his heart
You will see how he is already too much of a grown up
His ancestors and his country
Already glued to his feet
That march 50 km a day in a less than 1000 mete square
Perhaps he will dream of travelling himself when he gets older
Perhaps such dream is vain and a luxury
That does not exist in the minds
So filled with petrol and horns
Perhaps the passing happenings of everyday life are enough
But then someone might come up to him oneday and say
“You are a smart boy. You look good. You know things. You should get out of here. You should see the world and see life. Live life while you live.”
And if the voice comes from both outside and inside
Perhaps he will go – just pack up and go
Into the world of terror and confusion
World of love and sadness
World of war and silence
World of tears and violence
World that he knew too well
World that he already learnt
When he was 8 years old
Cleaning shoes at the Gare Routier
Written at the Mahatta, Inzegane
