In a passing poem
Pretty cane dolls
Fish were magically dancing
Moved by sweet winds.
Along the straight piers
A flock of dark hooks
Darting all the time
Tracing a map at the face of a newborn poem.
Not too far
At the snack owner’s face
Indifferently,
Staring to passersby too
Staring with deep sadness.
In the first line exactly,
I saw…
Clearly,
Dogs shedding sticky tears
Some tiny Peebles falling too.
At the bottom of the river
I saw…
Truly,
Here, Orphaned children playing
Virgin games
Total eternal forget
So was things’ awareness.
How terrible wars are!
How ugly a sniper is!
There,
With a hardened cruel heart
Riding the ridge of a rooftop towards a field of pure childhood
Persistent bloody striking
Distorted skinny bodies
And unstoppable red fires.
(Translated into English by Mohamed Moukhariq)
*
On the verge of total collapse
From a window of the wall
I stretch out my hand.
While,
The other hand
Feels its right path
Along the ancient deep wall.
I only fear,
The world’s memory may tremble
May endure defiled madness.
Extending my white palms
Remaining so cautious
My guard eyes fixing it
Fearing a resounding horrible fall.
Every early morning,
Gathering my sweet words
Letter by letter
Into my old poorly sack
On my wide shoulders
Heading towards nothingness.
One spring day,
I confessed to my companion
He died behind the wheat
If I return from absence
I rearrange the front page of the newspaper
Since my youth,
I have been addicted to.
In the editorial,
I describe a cat
Keeping meowing until being dumb.
In the main daily column,
A huge bold headline:
A fair blond thief
Grabbing away innocent feelings
Of a poorly sweet doll
Not yet fully grown.
In the banner headline,
With a long awful speech
The ones who once sold the homeland
By a Cuban Partagas cigar in the dark
And,
Arranged the great escape
Aiming own dignity
Crossing out stings of remorse.
In the main headline,
Carving pain into the heart’s core
Torrential floods
Sweeping away innocent people
Leaving presidents with no voters
To whom,
They always gatter ripe firewood
(Translated into English by Mohamed Moukhariq)
Pretty cane dolls
Fish were magically dancing
Moved by sweet winds.
Along the straight piers
A flock of dark hooks
Darting all the time
Tracing a map at the face of a newborn poem.
Not too far
At the snack owner’s face
Indifferently,
Staring to passersby too
Staring with deep sadness.
In the first line exactly,
I saw…
Clearly,
Dogs shedding sticky tears
Some tiny Peebles falling too.
At the bottom of the river
I saw…
Truly,
Here, Orphaned children playing
Virgin games
Total eternal forget
So was things’ awareness.
How terrible wars are!
How ugly a sniper is!
There,
With a hardened cruel heart
Riding the ridge of a rooftop towards a field of pure childhood
Persistent bloody striking
Distorted skinny bodies
And unstoppable red fires.
From a window of the wall
I stretch out my hand.
While,
The other hand
Feels its right path
Along the ancient deep wall.
I only fear,
The world’s memory may tremble
May endure defiled madness.
Extending my white palms
Remaining so cautious
My guard eyes fixing it
Fearing a resounding horrible fall.
Every early morning,
Gathering my sweet words
Letter by letter
Into my old poorly sack
On my wide shoulders
Heading towards nothingness.
One spring day,
I confessed to my companion
He died behind the wheat
If I return from absence
I rearrange the front page of the newspaper
Since my youth,
I have been addicted to.
In the editorial,
I describe a cat
Keeping meowing until being dumb.
In the main daily column,
A huge bold headline:
A fair blond thief
Grabbing away innocent feelings
Of a poorly sweet doll
Not yet fully grown.
In the banner headline,
With a long awful speech
The ones who once sold the homeland
By a Cuban Partagas cigar in the dark
And,
Arranged the great escape
Aiming own dignity
Crossing out stings of remorse.
In the main headline,
Carving pain into the heart’s core
Torrential floods
Sweeping away innocent people
Leaving presidents with no voters
To whom,
They always gatter ripe firewood
* Abderrahman Chakib: Born in Casablanca, Morocco. He studied in primary and secondary schools, and after obtaining his baccalaureate degree, he continued his studies at the Faculty of Arts, Hassan II University, Ain Al-Shaq. Writer and novelist, cultural and collective actor. President of the Association of Moroccan Pen Club, Safi branch of four states. Director of the Annual Poetry Forum in Safi City. Founder and Director of Casablanca International Poetry Festival. He participated in several local and national poetry meetings and festivals. It is published in several Moroccan and Arabic magazines. His published works:1. From Casablanca to Montreal: It is often spoken and told, 2. Darb Moulay El Sherif Gardens, 3, The end of the last pain.