1.

To search for myself,
Synonym for the lack of a name,
I need a microscope of a retired scientist
A sieve to collect the splinters of truth …
The hands of dusty clocks…
A bag of cold secrets..!

2
Maybe I find myself
As in yesterday’s childhood
Full of absolute wander
And whiteness of colors…

3
Expatriation smells of death
Its fingertips have the vastness of gravestone
This grave is mine, I will not leave it
Until the swaddle bids me
Until the ashes of the shroud bid me
What if he began to drink
Drinks the evening with his nudeness
The balcony of strangeness is wide open
In depression
Crave travel ticket
To the workshops of birth
To the womb
Of Desert …

4
The corridors of turtle are for loss
Light for a maze of alleys
The same distance of the protective shield
of grief
She risked air
To render it cities
And who is going to lament the bars
Except wisdom wine
I asked the glasses of history
They became streams of eternity …

5
Perhaps the depression of existence
May urge my steps to walk
Towards anonymous archipelagos of the self
Or towards the dance of desires…
The destruction of this age
I risk it when I call it life
The question of emotion remains
Not in the lobby of the place
Except for the contributions of gypsies
Vines of the nomads
And travel
of the strong..!

6
Numerous in moments
I sew time in solo
First with the astonishment of narration
Second by destroying the mirage
I wander in hotbeds of riots
Butterfly hovering in the patio
And I leave the heat of noon
To the exhilarations of sun …

7
The shirt of diaspora
Corresponded to the mailbox
It admonishes the memory of a woman
Who wears a sail instead of a mask
Instead of illusion
Question of this country
Obsessed with the wall map …

Author of over two dozen books of poems, writer and journalist, Driss Allouch is a member of Morocco’s Writers Union, The House of Poetry in Morocco, and President/Founder of the Friends of Rafael Alberti Association. From 2008-2013 he prepared a radio program named « The Moroccan Culture » at Cap Radio in Tangier.