Hard to breathe

For different reasons

Muddy water muddy sky

Quinoa for lunch

Potato for dinner

There is no salt on the table

There is no salt in the air

But only Mapacho smokes swirl

There is a stoned Buddha on the floor

People start chanting


Sounds of wind

Sounds of Icaros

Green lines move from left to right

Then, some blues and reds

There is a man

This man follows me

His body is seen

But where is his head?

There is more than one man

They are coming towards me

They have torches in their hands

I want to get up and see

But my body’s immovable

Must be someone up there

I feel it’s staring at me

Then the fear disappears

That’s only after seeing what it was

Or have I chased it off from my own fears?

It is getting cold

Someone is crying

I force myself some cold splashes

They say a tree has 1500 different spirits

Everyone gathers around

We smile to each other

And hold each other’s hands

Everyone’s in need

In need to be here and now

Let’s swim in the river of floating leaves

Able to breathe better

Carbon dioxide is necessary for plants

There is enough in the air

We need oxygen that plants produce

Nu says he was left at the jungle when he was only 15

He had to live next to the tree for 5 years

He had to eat the whole tree

Then he is the tree

Butterflies do not regenerate when broken

But they still fly and fly

Hard to say goodbye

My timidity reflects his

We will meet again

We will meet again

2012, Peru


There is a box

In the box there is a language

In the language we bow

In the language we shake hands

In the language we wave hands

In the language we proclaim our love

In the language we make the invisible, visible

Sometimes this box is thrown in the gutter

Then we shout out loud to be heard

Sometimes this box is placed on the sharp point of the pyramid

Then we whisper not to get hurt

Sometimes this box has no language

Then we are very very happy


Perhaps he will never walk again
Whereas I will always walk on
Even with my new lover boy
I will continue walking
To the South
To the North
While he dies dreaming of me
Missing me
I will walk guilty
I will walk happy
Life in divisions

Written in France


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


Have you ever walked alone on a grey day in some village
And watched how the long evening soon become the past ?
How the small brief wind touches our shoulders
Full of question marks.
I make a hat out of these question marks
Question marks without questions.
You may wear it much later in the evening
When there is no reason to use
Body gestures and presumptions that can  take us only to the river
But why is it that I say black and you look at the black sheep ?
Why is it that I say white and you think of purity ?
What have you done to me two years ago ?
What a strange disease you have passed it to me,
Why am I allowed to love everything that breathes ?
It is a morning’s work
That the moon has started.
It must be carried on
Finished by noon.
Oh ! But my poor poor soul !
You and your colourful thoughts
The thoughts in me like a rainbow in hell.
Better float on the ocean
Than to walk on the fragments.
Then, here comes a shiny boy
Mischiveous smiles and wild imaginations.
I wanna play hide & seek with you.
But he frowns at my smiles.
Smiles of fragile minds
Frowns of fragile minds
How we read the same book
But must live differently.
Like the angry poem I wrote last night
About the girl looking for me in a mountain of sunsets
But what is a language if not a shadow?
What is ‘I’ if not a benefit to ‘you’ ?
Come out of the cave of seriousness,
For it will always be there no matter what.
And do not let what I say to you be forgotten
Like a broken leaf blowing helplessly in apocalyptic storms.
Remember the times of conflicts and wasted sentiments.
I know it hurts growing up:
It hurts to let go of dead poets,
It hurts to come out of the prison
Of your mothers and fathers,
It hurts to hug the one in front of you,
It hurts to express your hatefulness,
Your boredom,
Your love,
It hurts me when she throws at me
The can full of yellow left-over paint.
It hurts her when I throw some blues at her.
Tomorrow she might bring me a camera to hear and a recorder to see
And that’s better for all.
Tomorrow I will be on a different train
To find other brothers and sisters.
Sometime in these doggy dreams of snow
In fields of blossomed flowers,
A chamaleon in silence, glued,
One of the roads must be taken
One of the instruments must be played.
The page of the book that cannot be turned.
I am sorry.
I am sorry.
Now look how selfish are the lovers,
Deciding to love only each other
Promising the stars
Making a pact with the heaven.
What is in between them?
A /, a , or a ! ?
Even the subtlest sand won’t able to go
In between their souls,
Firmer than a self

Firmer than the master with food

Firmer than the old man’s tears from half-closed eyes.
Perhaps they were born in a wrong place
Perhaps they were to born in a different place
Perhaps I was born in a wrong time.
But the world is round,
And so are the dimensions
We try hard to make our thoughts square
That are naturally round.
For we are part of nature and nature is round.
We can be in the same place but in different times
Or, in the same time but in different places.
Out in the forest of paranoia and silence,
Crying the tears of yesterday,
Taking an ideal travel in memory,
The telephone rings
« Girl, you gotta paint some heavenly landscape of your own imagination ! »
I am glad.
Thank you partner in crime
Thank you girl with a double bed
Thank you teacher of plants and stars
Thank you sculptor in rice fields
Thank you child of rational mind
Thank you painful acrobat
Thank you jazz enthusiast
Thank you endeavouring merchant
Thank you idle thinker
Thank you poetic dog
Thank you book keeper
Thank you sensitive lady of the house
Thank you the forgottten souls

A goodbye in future tense.

‘residency’ poem written in Tulle, France