Tinctures, Marrakech

a poem

The designer of the city 
etches songs onto the street.

The Why is always more important than
authenticity. A middle layer binds two sides of the coin.

•

Bus drivers improvise their stops.

The journey varies,
albeit destination the same.

So many faces I’ll never get to know.
It’s funny how we crossed paths.

•

Is culture highly curated tourism on display

–– to be seen, 
desired, 
and consumed?

•

Women on motorbikes
in shawls and long dresses
cut through the chaos
and raising dust.

Girls on the river bank
pose for friends behind the camera.
The breeze kisses their hair,
levitating their laughs.

I’ve never seen the shape of the wind 
so full of promises.

•

There are women who want to be girls 
and girls who used to be women.

One day, they meet,
like mirrored reflection, realizing only the past
knows the future.

•

A midnight carriage ride
on the high street of Marrakech.
Cheeks rosy from too much Berber whisky*.

We make a bet:
Dreams don’t disappear after arbitrary deadlines.

•

You think you’ve changed everything;
everything has also changed you.

Football fields in the desert. 
Goal nets rustle in the wind, waiting for those that return.

And some always do.

•

A pending divorce 
between the unchanged 
and the growing old.

Anew, a puppy roams free in the park.
Anew, once upon a childhood, fear is never known.





*Berber whisky is a local nickname for Morrocan mint tea