Safi, Morocco
All living babies squall at birth
Though welcomed with mirth;
Do they feel life’s misery flare
Or see death brandish in the air?
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Soon they forget; they’ve just been told,
Enjoying life, ignoring death at the treshold.
They grow up scattered like stars, numerous;
Making their own day, some bright, others less.
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Yet, a star has blown itself up in the day light,
Unable to forget, to resist the dark and fight,
The dark, its shadow, that’s made it prim,
Eclipsing its day into a premial night, then dim.
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Like a quarry in a soundless hunting game,
The star has died out, preceding its name;
Putting an end to its journey of hope;
In this gory film, the hero was just a rope.
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The astral glint was a mirage, a water pool
In the desert, accessible to the thirsty ones,
Filled by woe for its drought, like bereft swans,
Filling it with mourning tears, as it’s the rule.
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In an atoning act, one that is, and not, brave,
He took his long heaved secrets to his grave;
What was gnawing at his conscience, what guilt
Has made him weed out what was long built?
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The star has blown himself up reducing his span to naught,
Cutting short his story with its fuzzy, firm knot;
Redeeming it his right to bring his light to an end,
Conspiring with the devil, shaking its hand.
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I wonder which to be mourned and cursed ;
His self-extinction or life’s pressure burst?
May he mercifully rest in a heavenly home,
Not under the ground like a ghostly gnome!
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