(melody of the old door)

(melody of the old door)

Farhat musataha

transleted by Hassna.B.

2012

-1-

A poet and two birds

Words take me for away

Through the smoke of

Burning fire

I colored my face with

White just like fire

In my heart.

Two birds have abandoned

Their nest

Just two small birds

Like my poem; it never ends

Words slip through my fingers,

And on my cheeks; there are two kisser

Softer than the water of the noon.

In my child heart,

I still keep the odor

Of the prophet.

Two birds eat from my shade;

When words escape from me.

I get a child and contemplate

The beauty of the see.

Fes. 27/04/2001.

-2-

A journey through my sadness

Riding on the time

My horse is fire and aches

The wind is drawing

Forms with water

The corps of the earth

Is like henna drawing

On the hands of a virgin

To my shade, I’m rodding

To catch it

Fearing it my escape or fly away

From me.

H escape my head to the sun

Hoping to ocquire

what the old poet

had left

and I keep wolking

bare footed

cleaning away

what my feet had drawn

I will write a new dictionary

For words and action

I will pass it

To my next generation.

Bzou: ../09/2002.

-3-

Poetry and the sea

Poetry and the sea are twins

From nature they do come from.

Poetry dances on the rhythm

Of the waves,

When it feels tired,

It repeats its dancing

And de stars smiles for

The brightness of the day

The mouth of the sea

Relates to tongue of the waves,

devouring what remains

of the sun

the sound of the sea

play musically with

the running water.

It declares

The birth of poems

From the vagina of the eternal.

Al Mohammadia:

22/04/2001.

-4-

Dream and dust

There is nothing except

Bleu and yellow shades

Everything is blocked

Necks get longer for

They wait longer

Eyes are dried

Green has been broken

Necks reach the sky

Begging for water

Nothing except

bleu and yellow

everything is blocked

thunder is roaring

pleasure and fun have left.

Spring loses its face, just

Yellow and yellow shades

And dreams covered by

Dust and sadness.

Bzou: 1998.

-5-

dream

naked,

I discover the nakedness of the sea

I marry the male and the female

Of the sea birds,

From my poem.

I make a band of music

And from the gospels

I make the clothes of the bride

I’m waiting for Christmas

To celebrate the birth of the sea

And teach it haw to swim

On the edge of thirst.

-6-

The song of the sea

I see that the sea has two braids

Two cheeks…

And two eyes…

One is playing the guitar

The other is singing the sea song

Of robes for a new bride.

It leaves it’s shade

And all shades sink under it,

That’s the sea

Made from us and within us,

The secret of waiting

Never..

All the time it rests within us

It writes and cleans our story

We get up, with no face

To stare at,

This sea takes us far away

It furnishes from it’s body

A desire

And from roaring

A wave,

My arms from the sand

Are leaving

The wind-very cold,

Distorts us

The sea is my first image

The face of my ancestors

Who made me bear their

Injuries,

They were fire in my chest

And I immediately

Obeid their orders.

Al Mohammadia-Bzou: ../06/2006.

-7-

The fingers of my mother

I’m laying between two edges:

One of my father

The other of my mother.

Both of them

Have loved each other

On the door of history

Side by side,

They walked the road:

One is sweating

Sand and salt,

The other loves all seasons.

In the summer;

My mother gathered

The wheat of the fields,

She made feast.

In winter;

She saw seeds.

In spring;

She song for flowers

And squeezed the parfumes.

In autum;

When meadows lost their leaves

She wached

the wool and

the wool and wave clothes.

My mother had

the voice of the sea

she had a face

that made hand-kerchieves

very shy.

Bzou: 15/05/2001.

-8-

There is no secret in my garden

-1-

In my garden, there is a spring

Flowers and singing births

It takes me each night

To dream and fantasy.

In my garden; there is

An obdey, a minaret and some bells

All flogs and smiling;

Colors and sleeping stories.

My garden doesn’t care

It rain leaves her.

-2-

In my garden, there is a blue birds

Sitting near a blue spring

Were blue fish are swimming

When it gets hot,

It invites me

It teaches me how to dance

With the noon,

And changes autum

By spring colors

When my blue bird get satisfied.

Every thing stop speaking

They gathered my garden

For getting the world agonies

And heart suffering.

-3-

My garden is a refuge

For those wicked by time,

A redemption place for

Wreathed people

Sinned ones

They invoked vainly

Dust around them

Those without dreams

They fall in misery

They bent once they

Saw my garden,

My garden is the pilgrimage

For migring birds.

-4-

Wolves have an amusing story

With my garden

They climb and steal

Some of the nectars,

They keep calling

Until they fall dawn.

-5-

Cats came to my garden

In the afternoon or at night

Once they feel hungry

They stare at trees

Play with nightingales

-6-

Dogs smell the perfumes

They bark continuously

They rest in my garden

They look for food

And devore corpses

-7-

My garden remains

A field for wind and sea

A source for light and perfumes,

It is a symbol of life

It remains protected

By hearts and flowers.

Bzou: 15/05/2003.

-9-

The story of a legend

“people of Bzou”

-1-

In the past.

They say a bout it:

Is these the garden of e Eden

Or this is Bzou.

Every soul longs to it

And I say:

Bzou is the cheeks of a smallgirl

Flourishing within her age

On the edges of her hashes.

Green and colours of the spring

Through her cheecks.

Fields and poor drink

Fresh water.

They say about it:

The meadows of Bzou

Are more beautiful.

And I say:

It is a princess

With the voice of rural nightingale

The people of Bzou gathered

Around fire in time of coldness

Listening to the stories of

The grand-mother.

-2-

In the present.

It is Bzou, a princess

Drawn by history

A ship anchoring

In a deserted harbour

Water had left her earlier

It got forgotten.

It is very ill

Like an old man

Like a ghost

You smell only bad odour

Through it’s street.

It’s air is dry

It’s water is salty

It is very disgusting

To stare at the face of Bzou.

It stumbles in the djellabas

Of passing days.

The walls of the past

Tells their stories

And glorified days.

They tell about the disaster.

-3-

The future.

I see a sand Autumn

That steals the herbs

Of the green fields

Birds abandon their nests

On their shoulders,

They take trees and vegetation

The wind uncover the seeds

The birds no more sing

All is leaving

Girls have broken their jarres

They cry

And feel very sad.

-10-

The spectrum of “MASMOUDA”

The day is cold

The moon is dancing in the sky

Fogs are frosting

The king is in his tent snoring

Saad is leaving now

He can’t sleep, waiting to know

What is in the other side of the river.

Enemies are ready to conquer.

The horse of “Masmouda”

Is ready too

“Ouad El Abid” sing with no voice

Side by side

with the river of “Oum Rabiaa”

it cures the face of the sand

it evokes magnificient dreams.

Fez is praying for “Marrakech”

It brings dawn its flags

“Kurtuba” entertains Islam.

H hear all the voices

Their echoes came back

Horses have abandoned the place

She bears the identity of a country..

H see corps full with dust

A civilization is drawing back

All horses have died

Humanity have died*with as

Bzou: ../02/2001.

-11-

The return from

the sunset harvest

coming back from their harvest

after they had eaten dried

bread ant water.

Faces are in a tomb

Skins are burnt by hot sun

Eyes are withering

Souls get empty

teeths are decayed.

Caming back from the harvest

Riding frile donkey,

Listening to the voices

Of the weak crops.

Emptiness with another

Coming back from their harvest,

Dreaming of the rain.

Their hands hurted by axes

They wear all times

Sadness is the prevailing aspect

Walking in hot red sun

Lashed are crying for the eyes

The traces of the walking donkey

are not apparent

the feet of the rider

can’t be distinguished

from the sandal.

Coming back from their harvest

Dreaming of the rain.

Walking to house

Where there is only dust

And:

Very hungry dog get weaker

Children are crying

Women are chasing bees

From the corps

They fell hungry

There is no noon

No flower

Only frailty and fire.

Bzoo: 06/08/1999.

-12-

The village and the bird

My village has the colour of Aden

Running through the wall

Drawing forms of history

When I was sleeping

It tells me its story

It tells me about bird

Fogs and that a lonely

Bird lived within it’s parts

At night

It sing about it’s sad life.

My village tells me that the bird

Is chased by small children

They threw him by stones

When the morning has broken

The village woke up

after the rain

the river tells its story too

“it is accused of running

in cold weather

we usually make tombs

for our lives..

we observe how we sleep

haw we get poor day by day

you’re chased from our village.”

The bird had already left

he went alone far away

sad and despaired

he sang in his exile

the story ends

and de village has

no water, no milk..

and the tombs grow

instead of flowers.

Bzou:

../08/2002.

-13-

An ode to Oued El Abid

Wake up that river

You’re still proud of your self

Stand up

You’re our history and proud

Our eyes are hungry

Run your water

Give us some food

You make girls healthy

Your water is our fields

You give us milk and bread

You bring out what is hidden

In the soil

You make our feasts

You invite me

My heart is dying

Frosting like ice.

I walked to you,

Humiliated and despaired.

I rode my foist and last face

I melt in you my orpheline days

Waiting for another birth

Of my mother.

I need just a little of her milk

To give birth to flowers

And flies.

Some jay may came back

To my forgotten village

And you will be happy.

Bzoo: 2003.

The beauty of poetry

Poetry grants me emission

I deliver it on rocks

And they yield to foods

This is my blood

You have to drink it and

Not sell it

Put it in battles from pottery

Put it in your bodies

To be cleaned

For your sins

Their one my veins

Compose rimes and words

Memorize my poetry

To discover the truth.

Poetry make you live

Poetry make you die,

I swear, h heart the music of poetry

Walking with me

A long the road..

Ht embraces a noon

Coming from my heart,

Ht enlightens my way

H hear also the pains of poetry

Perhaps love will come.

The lamb repeat the music

Of that poetry

Whose mother wondered

Within the cattle.

He can’t neither eat the grass

Nor sucks the milk of it’s mother,

Poetry is like the fly

The river runs with poetry

It wears our dreams

It teach us

Love will be eternal.

Poetry embraces me like mother

It protect me from ugliness

Within us.

I will always remember you

I will not tend my hand

I’m a miserable

That’s the core of ugliness

Go to your shade

And hang it in the village

If forgetiness

You’re dying

Your days are few.

Teach me poetry

Your secret and your power

I know that the traveler

Never comes back

In my eyes’ there still be

A place for caring.

Bzou:

2003.

-14-

Waiting for confession

On the deserted street

There are cafes and cafes

And forgotten people

Living on chairs

In the morning and evening

Crying the past time

And suffering from illness,

The face is bargaining

And the heart is resisting

Reclaiming peace for our country

Whose water no more running

And trees are dying

The country was stolen

From the poor and granted to

Rich minority.

On the desert street

There are cafés and cafés

And forgotten people,

Living in the chairs

Waiting for nothing

They collect what ever

They find in there way.

They have no fields

No spring

Everything is lost,

People are tired of waiting

They look for real humanity

They look for real freedom,

They still wish

Peace for their country.

BZOU: ../02/1999.

-15-

The seduction of Travelling

Standing on the cost of tanger

I smell the odour of the sea

I have come from water and trees

From my houses

The time of my village

Had already stopped

The time of the west

Has just be born

In just few minutes

I will cross to another country..

When I came back

I will I’m the sun of generosity

I will cross to Europe

Be a rising sun;

The trees have withered

Without you, it will no prosper,

I cross “Tanger” to Europe

To coach is full of my sadness

I couldn’t sleep

I became dust.

With no day or night

My back got bent

My poverty is increasing

I cry and sing

A long my road.

I amuse my self by dreaming

We crossed “Tanger”.

We ride the boat of death

Waves push us up word

Country call as to come back

Nothing could fight hunger

Except bare bread and water

A strong wind is blowing

At the dept of the sea

All odours are mixed

Water and foam

We the sea from “Tanger”

Twenty dreams

The boat is sinking

The country is crying

Nothing could stop our dreams.

We fight and fight

Noting can seduce us in our country

Stretched on the coast of “Tanger”

I see a blue sky

A star is twinkling

The sea throws corps and dead.

Bzou: 1998.