Then The Soul. Poem by Driss Ezzireg

The blood in me boils
Like the tide that coils
When meeting the hot wind
Coming from inside the land
From inside the plains whose
Complaints are distinctly heard
By swift winged travelling birds.
The blood in me rages
Like an ages and ages old desire
That awaits the consecrating moment
To quench a life long thirst born from a burst
Of humiliating anger.
The blood in me curdles
Like a rock that hurdles down a snowy steep slope
Amassing snow and greasy lumps of brownish clay
That may in some way resemble the decay lying in my body
Keeping me unsteady till the day when clay turns out into decay.
There the blood in me stiffens.
Then the soul in me quickens.