Won’t you let them come out?
Why are you drowning their voices?
A meal, a sweep, a wash, a beating, a hurting whirlwind,
Is that your lot?
When your ancestors lay dormant inside you,
Tugging at your carotid to wake up.
Unshackle me, they plea,
Even if the idea seems beyond you,
Come inside and be free.
Let us meet and sip tea,
From Moroccan pots,
Under olive trees.
Bare feet on mosaic tiles,
We’re your mothers, your grandmothers,
Your sisters and brothers,
Spices and aromas,
Fruits and elixirs.
Bazaars of rosaries,
For every aching prayer,
Enough for your fingers to wear,
Wear away your hearts care.
In Fes, the axe was dropped there.
City of saints,
Of singing Sufis,
Of memorised litanies.
We’ll slap sandals on red dust,
And veil our faces from handsome boys lust.
Come, and share a meal made with loving hands,
Prayers of love blown over, as the Sahara blows over sands.
You won’t need a ticket, packed bag or passport,
No ships, cars or airports.
All you’ll need for this ride,
Is let go of superficialities, look inside.