Treasure Island

Atef Ayadi


White Rose From The Atlas


Now Paris
Is washing its eyes
With August rain
Paris is now
A woman
A Babylonian bride
Her wedding
Is set on Christmas
I hear youyous in Paris
And emigrants cheering
And applauding
To welcome
These eyes of marble
This is your day woman
You will hug
Another man
A Parisian
Black-feet
Who does not respect
The rain

In my little house
There are many essays
And poems
Some I do not feel I need
Some are not mine
They are still
Standing up
The way I left them
This morning
The fireplace is silent
Like a grandmother
Who knows when she should talk
Too many books
In different languages
Agitated
Like me
Even your journal
As you left it
It still keeping
Its preferred place,
Its blue color
And the smell of your burned desires

The first December snow
Is falling in a rebellious motions,
It is embracing the town’s big avenue
And dancing with the last falling leaves
Against its will
This is not very important
The town is not
My town
I am an emigrant too

Time in my house
Is yellowish
It creates its own dunes
Just to get lost
This is trouble my house’s door.

Before you left
This town
I drew a plan
To settle and colonized this town
I planned to build
Another Paris
A barbarian one
So you can take me
With your eyes of the Atlas
Through its streets of marble
And to our Andalusia’s house
Then we go
And visit mosques
Churches
And temples
To wash our souls
With the town’s walls
And gates.

Now
And after you left
I burned all the plans
The town’s saltiness is all that remains
And the smell of your burned desires.

Submitted: Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Edited: Sunday, December 24, 2006

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