Chez Cherif


Chez Cherif

My own flurries mount my own hills
Rising from my 'savoir-être'
Which is now défoncé à l'ouest
Lost bents now returned
While concurrently my own anima is toujour still
Surrounding fields greeny, ils bougent sweetly indeed
As the wind sways the nabatat almarijwana
The green bhang stands high, so greenward it is.
And, the surrounding distant hills are topped like with copper
And, the pollen that the contrebandiers smoke
Up it goes, up in fumée
And, the water we drink
From la source de l'eau
Hints turquoise as it flows
Below runs a stream
Soft passing by its stones and rocks
And, I had tried counting each one
One by one
As I hot-footed over them
Above, liquid sapphire is the sky
And whoever looks round these environs
Sees peace here in these, the Rif mountains

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A poem about Katama, a small town I visited while I was in Morocco some years back.