Scirocco
Autumn flashes deep
and traces of your kisses linger.
Each burst of color
of passion
of trees
Pales beside Xixax;
Rivers carry smiles like the hearts of mercenary angels
with Mescalito's Kingdom of Colored Alabaster
and bugles crying;
with just the name of Xixax
on his lips
Leaves with the delicate scent of orchids
move to her unique and glorious music:
certain, like the steps of tigers.
And I am lost: born in Deep Song,
in Gyspy wounds,
exhausted upon the western reach of her hand
that hand, most fragile hand of this cursed Maghreb.
The heated wind of Fez
rode through the stars and though my heart
burning like Andalusian song
Like her eyes transfixed:
a single gypsy hand.