We are the exiles.
A storm's coming, the kind
with horns, horns of Spain, colliding
wild and heavily.
Allah, was not happy.
The men, who were cursed and told to head
towards the eastern shores,
were the first to step out of the ship
onto the grounds of our new home, the port of 'Marsilho'.
I held hands with Mom, none of the elders knew where we were.
The beautiful women in evening gowns spoke in tongue resembling
the concise howls of a Bedouin man. We were cold, so we hid ourselves that night like the Nomads we were not, on a street in a place called 'Panier', until we were hungry.
Father killed seven pigeons and served it on a wooden-platter that Mom brought from Sahara, my sister smiled. Our ancestral land was taken away from us and our finest lambs were killed and served to the General. On this foreign land those who passed by us brought us gifts: cups, bread and sometimes wood.
Mother would smile
while picking up the grapes
and every now and again i would suck it;
grapes only came from the fertile lands of Sahara,
where idle gods were known by the few.
There goes another French communist
walking on the grounds of our home.
And with a stale smile he greets;
'They own what is yours. Men,
who steal for the poor,
are grindan on a stone, crying
'When will I eat again? ''
The man wore a velvet vest, synthetic sweater
and a tourniquet tie. Father wasn't impressed
and neither was I.
On the streets of Marseille, Mother would stroll to work and Uncle Sam
to church. I was finger-painting the trees in fog with these words written on the bottom: 'And you'll never find this Imperial Eagle again.' My father doesn't have a job, instead he just sat, drinking until mother came home; Sophie, my younger sister, would knit 'til then. Father drunk, Mother weary, Uncle Sam preaching with a tone of disgust, Sister platting her hair-I decide to gather wood for tomorrow.
On the streets of Marseille, Father would put on a suit and together we
strolled to church: In this modern age those who follow those who've lost their eldest son,
follow the semites among us.
May 18th 1947
On this fractured land the dried souls
will ascend from the prickly pears.
All the ice-age farmers, from this fractured land,
will harvest 'til the trumpet blows; remember the orphans when they sing the words,
'O Death, where is your sting? '
The four winds won't collide with the abandoned land;
the land of the Ancestors.
But when I arrive don't bring the gifts for the Mothers and then offer it to me
on a apron; the forefathers won't allow such a thing.
Children of the desert where are you going?
No-man's land bares no fruit neither here nor there.
This is the road of the exiles; where everyman must repent.
This fractured land doesn't exist to me anymore.
This animate distortion, this scene of conquest
will soon dissolve as a nation.
And then you'll all know that Father
never liked his black Son