Sunday morning, rising with the sun, the smell of coffee,
It almost perfect, almost…
Like some coffee shops in Marrakech,
Smoke blurring the mind of the deceits,
Black widows hand’s amalgam through the seeds,
With toothless smiles,
The corner of their eyes sparks with ageing tears.

Century after century
The same ritual, yelling’s like banshees to the …
Young lovers walking down the streets,
They freckle skins stains by memories,
Pushing their baskets to innocence,
Pick a seed ,soon to be two in a pod,
The amalgam of love.

Souviens toi for the death of one pod,
Thousand travel through history,
Crossing oceans and deserts,
Some loose, some win,
Hold tight to the tiny hope,
Through this deserted land,
Remember the wind is here to caress you.

While robbing you from all pains…
Sunday morning can be exotic and beautiful,
Somebody smile,
Somebody cry,
Close your eyes and you shall see them too,
These old widows’ hands,
Amalgam of love.



Author's Notes/Comments: 

mind game

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sanctus's picture

Really enjoy your work!

Really enjoy your work!

CrowPieD's picture


iam flatter from somebody like you who write so well. than u, Herve

Visual poet/ Libertine lost in a labyrinth of complexities, methaphors, searching for the essence/ Ink of life/ death to spell my syphilistic words on the page/ screen.