Flying mountains

  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,

  Still dreaming,

  Praying for rain.


  O, Man if you came

  With all the sins  

  In the world I’ll forgive you,

  And don’t care.


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All rights reserved for the author Ghazi Gheblawi 2003/2005