Land Of Pastures. Poem by Driss Ezzireg

Ghosts haunt the land of past pastures.
Now junkyard for black dirt,
Slum for numb bums.
Rivers flowed free.
Fauna flourished wild.
No barriers crushed the flood of feelings.
No tears shed in beds fled by migrant lovers.
Choruses of voyaging birds filled the skies
With cries of joy.
Lone sounds of thunder heard here under
Telling tales of wonder
When animals and men sang songs together,
Grass wild and green was bed and food
For the bad and the good.
The woods never slept,
There leapt beast and bird
Night and day; predator and prey.
Prairies were kept unkempt
In seasons of slumber
And of hunt.
Now ghosts haunt the land of past pastures.
No joy is heard,
No rapture.

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