These lines lie. They do not tell the truth of what lines usually tell – age. You are nearly eight times a full carton of eggs, the cartons your Moroccan brothers and sisters buy on the other side of the medina where chickens hatch them and donkeys transport them.
These lines speak. They speak of the joy with which you’ve lived, the pains you’ve felt, the feelings released. You found yourself on these roads, these that cobbled together like trade beads on a string, intimate, always leaning on one another.
Around a Riad I came and there you were, walking with high waisted pants, buckled – a bellwether of your style, speaking in it’s own tongue. I understood you, although not a line of your Arabic. Language failed us, everything else didn’t. Nice meeting you brotha, nice meeting you drinker of tea, nice meeting you human.
Cafe: near Musee de Marrakech
Location: Marrakech, Morocco