The old man was coming back
From others wars
The year of famine approaching to shores
Black future and the last Jew
Giving his last blessing to the Promised Land
Tamalult is no more white, and olives are frail
The shepherd was coming back home
To find his destiny sharpened
“Down we go” said Solomon,
No more clay to eat, no more locusts to spare.
The Shagrounis left with the Benjamins,
On the blue horizon they felt weak
Jesus took a fist of wild thyme,
Ezra a fist of white sand.
“Nothing to weep for...!” cried out Solomon,
His wife fearing miscarriage hoping that the city
Will be less cruel on her children.
Singing an old Amazighi melody
“Spring will be like red
Poppy flower in
Our land, above the skies
And onto the hands of God”
They never knew what
Thee showed them,
The son of man will rise
Above the hill
And call for them to bow
Solomon still crying,
Vowing not to return to his ruined temple cave.
Uncle Ali prayed for the rain
That never came.
Spending evenings beside
The water stream of the Roman spring.
Waiting for the gush.
It dribbled and slowly died.
Uncle Ali is blind now,
Praying for rain.
O, Man if you came
With all the sins
In the world I’ll forgive you,
And don’t care.
All rights reserved for the author Ghazi Gheblawi 2003/2005