Mustapha Maaroufi
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.
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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.
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Wednesday:
From the breast of the clouds he suckles
Five songs,
And by the stone
He slaughters the weathercock.
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Thursday:
He irrigates his memoirs
With the water of trouble,
In the evening
He expectes to be kidnapped.
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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.
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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.
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Sunday:
His feet take him
Where the nightmares of the road are,
His eyes lurk among the passers-by.
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