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	Mustapha Maaroufi
	PROFILE About me Friends (52) Poetry (6) Prose (1)

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Mustapha Maaroufi, 31 january 2020

The Sun

The sun escapes from the daytime tiredness
To fall asleep in the night bed
And at the dawn
The day wakes up
To embrace it
And take it for its new journey.

number of comments: 4 | rating: 1 | detail

Mustapha Maaroufi, 29 january 2020

A Position

For the wind
I will open my window
I am not inclining to the right side
There is a cough
A loss
As for the left side
I will remain waiting there
Under the green hope tree.

number of comments: 5 | rating: 1 | detail

Mustapha Maaroufi, 19 february 2012

Machiavelli's Table

It is enough for the water

To be a victim

Of the murderous grass,

And for this later

To remain a stranger

On the Machiavelli's table.

number of comments: 1 | rating: 10 | detail

Mustapha Maaroufi, 7 february 2012

When The Time Slept On My Hand

The asphalt forgot the roses advent
He threw the guise of orphanhood on the ground,
And from the night water
It started watering the passers-by's eyeballs.
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When the time slept on my hand
The memory was frozen,
Then the presence and the absence became equal
In the view of the eye sail.

number of comments: 0 | rating: 8 | detail

Mustapha Maaroufi, 5 february 2012

A Newspaper

Today
I read a newspaper,
In it was half a column,
On a people starving and dying,
The rest of it was :
Photos,
Crossword puzzle,
And faded letters.

number of comments: 13 | rating: 17 | detail

Mustapha Maaroufi, 1 february 2012

A week of A Man from Our Time

Monday:
He sharpens  his dream
By the hone of the  illusion,
Under his arm
He put roses
And a bit of of life's basils
Then goes to his work.
--------
Tuesday:
He says to the beloved:
Tomorrow, when  the dreams tree  leaves
On our stature,
And the light leapt smiling
In Our eyeballs
Humbly will come the sea
And give  us its waves.
--------
Wednesday:
From the breast of the clouds he suckles
Five songs,
And by the stone
He slaughters the weathercock.
--------
Thursday:
He irrigates his memoirs
With the water of trouble,
In the evening
He expectes to be kidnapped.
--------
Friday:
When he comes to the cafe
He drinks from his cup
A quantity of eulogies
About the  members of his tribe,
And when he goes out
He buries his misgivings in his pockets.
--------
Saturday:
He goes to  the city bar
And behind him he pulls
The chariot of the grief,
Instills in the field of his body
Seedlings of the wine
To make himself melted.
--------
Sunday:
His feet take him
Where the nightmares of the road are,
His eyes lurk among the passers-by.

number of comments: 8 | rating: 14 | detail

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Other poems: The Sun, A Position, Machiavelli's Table, When The Time Slept On My Hand, A Newspaper, A week of A Man from Our Time,