Poem_2012

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

Various

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

Poem_06/2014

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 2014.06.22)