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10/12/2006 Letter to my Grandmother N.B:(highlighted words are explained below)
  Brain of this earth, so hidden and bright, Blasting the sun, flooding every sight; The owner of my journey, master of my both, In grief I do have a wish, a need for an oath; A letter to Paradise, would it gate? Grand Ma is waiting, and I can’t be late; She blew a moan, Son I’m up to a ride, And went alone, I wasn’t by her side. Grand Ma, I miss you and I miss it all, Your laughter, your bread and your call; Grand Ma, I miss the stories and your pride, Crawl in the early and gather by your side. Grand Ma, your cough stirred to never, The sound of your broom, faded forever; Grand Ma, I miss your eyes and the face, That whiff of yours, I need to embrace. Candor made the scent of your shawl, Truth twined the bounty and the drawl; A school of life, a candle in the gloom, Your words of wisdom, guide of my doom. Smell of goats we prized, muttons fowls and cows, Ancestors made the rules, bounty pride and saws; Your soul in my lungs, your blood feed my vein, Gone without your son, in grief I’ll live in vain. Where was I, when you sighed the call? Where was I, when pain sapped the bawl? Far in deep vanish, no hearsay no traces, With fate I took a ride, of oceans and spaces. Now that you’re in Yovna, for death I shall crave, Ramble in bareness, and rove by your grave; Will I ever hear your voice, will I see you again? Drink from your smile, and ease the killing pain? I seek for a nap, a deep dive in the gone, Join my beloved, and revive my throne; I wish for a sleep, close my eyes and rest, Set my soul free, release body and chest. My glass of fate, my buddy in the throttle, Keep an eye, the grief may drain the bottle; My tears will tide, throat will gulp the scream, My eyes will close, for she will own my dream. El-Bechihi Yovna: A star where I beleave all the souls of my family members will converge. 11/11/2006 Roots of WrathA cry of pain escaped from her thirsty bleeding skeleton and she turned around trying to receive the suffering jolts on some other parts of her weak stem. The fierce aching flooded her mind and enrobed her soul to vibrating her sweating head in all the directions. She could aim and wonder to trade the rest of her moments with a glop of death, but death was not around. She could wish and hope to spare the little child crawling at her scratched feet and sink in a furnace of ferocious burning heat, but the child is still holding tight on the edges of her torn dress in an attempt to stand on his little innocent feet. She could talk to the brain of this deserted earth and ask for a tiny moment of mercy, but the place was wearing a strange silence and empty of any breath or smell of any living creature. The hope to find a way out of this naked desert of life is all what she could taste around her dry thirsty tongue. Words of madness paraded in her ears and the whisper of a lament filled her lungs. Is it an event of sacrifice and blood has to flow to clean her forgotten destiny? Is it a dream that will end at the edge of a happy awakening moment and happiness is going to overcome the fields of reality? Why it is so, that only agony and pain can comfort the circle of days and set free the words of anguish out of her chocking throat? Are those tiny footsteps that have been following her in her way to the nowhere, the signs of a cry of birth or they are just a flow of a stream rushing toward its ocean of death? The woman has to endure the atrocities of rejections and the child has to drink torture and feed from the roots of revenge. The face pale in panic, the eyes shredding the traces of layered dried tears, and the body in torture struggling to make a move and reach up toward the beyond of what the eyes could barely reach. Nothing was above and nothing was around that could bring a beam of hope; nothing that she could even forget and nothing that she could still remember. No wonder that the brain of this existence is absent from her deserted world, and she has been left on her own for an eternity. The child kept on trying to stretch the legs and stand on his feet, but if he only could miss a grasp and bulk down to ease her weight and set her free. Bitter desperation and a tasteless feeling of hopelessness invaded her heavy bosom, filling her nostrils with the hot and dusty wind of doom. She felt her head falling into a heavy weight of illusions and vague dreams colored the dryness of the stony path, which was rolling down its tongue ready to swallow each step of her path. She felt a strange pulse of warmth covering her lower legs and she felt the need to make a step. She smoothly pulled her left leg in a slow motion driving it away from her tormented past and in the same way did with her right leg in a gesture of an escape. A cloud of dust evaporated behind her like if the dust was trying to keep her from moving. The little child, who was holding up on his safety embryo and failing to anticipate his mother's move, was not able to hold on his twigs and fell all the way down crunching with his teeth deep into the dust. The child body bounced once and rolled twice in the middle of sharp layers of dry mud that made his body bleed in several parts. He was lying down with his right arm imprisoned under his bleeding chest, his belly hugging a parcel of dry mud, and his left arm was fully extended in an attempt to reach up the mother of his lost destiny. But at his deep deception, there was no sign of her that he could see and no sound of her that he could distinguish. She left him there and abandoned him in the behind leaving him thriving in seclusion without any glimpse of her shadow. He was lying there in the middle of the nowhere and the Angels of his spirit came down to flock in a dance. While the Angels were waltzing around and in the middle of his dreadful panic, he could hear the bells of his requiem. He reached his moment of truth and the brain of this earth clogged from counting the days of his story. The doors of the past have just closed his final moments of existence and the gate of wrath opened wide marking the moment of a new birth. In his deep innocent silence, his eyes were changing their colors and his heart was readjusting the rhythm of its beats. In a slow motion, the child little flimsy body tried to turn around itself seeking for a more comfortable position. He awakened each part of his corpse one at the time pulling them toward him in an attempt to find the position he used to have in his mother’s inside. That was the only place were he did enjoy warmth of safety and a secure shelter. His mother is now gone and forever her milk will fade to dryness within his childish teeth. He rested there for what seemed to be an eternity not willing to abandon the place that still hold the memory of the escaping mother. His bare remains layered the covers of the dark days, and he was no more able to discern any familiar sound striking the drops of his silent tears. She was at large away from his empty space and her breath of life is still echoing in the vanishing beat of his dreams. The little innocence is now alone and every living creature in the vicinity joined his felt senses to compile a world of threat around him. The song of fate rhymed in his ears in a melody of weeping, and a burst of hums gulped the finest from agony notes. The end has reached its beginning and the start is about to shiver and quiver for that first step toward what will never say it all. The child tried to send a sound of a sob in the direction of his lost world, but the hills and the mountains of purity stood up all around to narrow the gap in his sight. In an attempt to ease his panic, he dug into the ground with his soft nails, then took for a bite of fresh earth and led it to his crying wide open mouth. On his hesitating weak elbows he deepened the hope, and on his bleeding scarred knees he built up the first stones of a survival legend. That is how the tragedy had to sew its invisible web, blinding each blink of an eye in his way toward what he will never find. He will spend his days trying to remember the music of his mother’s footsteps and take them for a target in an effort to catch up on his lost destiny. He could crawl on his bare knees and try to build up a story with which he would play and remain forever in his innocent world. He could try again and pull his little lean body, reassemble it to rest on his buttocks, and extend his left hand around to sweep the tears that are blinding his eyes. He is a child, and what could a child come up with when his little brain is still in his waiting room? The little whispering of his moaning echoed in the eastern cliffs and resonated in the western hills; but nothing came to ease his fatal panic and no sign of hope showed up to ease the pain of his fear. The brain of this earth was in an ecstasy of a mockery and the little child is now lost in the harsh wilderness, where his deserter mother has deserted him. He will grow up feeding from his sorrow and he will walk in the light of his lost moon. He will stumble on the unknown and learn to be alone. He will throw his legs wherever they could take him and attain the limits of all the beginnings. He will fight the lizards of his wrath and feed his days from the heat of the revenge. He will start at the bottom of that survival hill and go on climbing all the heights that will ask for a challenge. He will hold up on each dry stem that his bleeding hands will grasp and pull up his legs to add another step in his way searching for his lost fate. He will close his little tired eyes and take a deep breath to fill his lungs with the breeze of life. He will caress the burning soil that he will be sweeping with his skinny thighs and pay the price of an unknown deep struggle. He will struggle and fight hard to grow wise and fill his belly with wisdom. He will look higher than what his eyes can ever percept and fill his emotions with the rain of his fertile dreams. The olive tree on the top of that hill will remain his sole target and he will never rest until his back will collapse against its sacred trunk. Each time he will think of his mother, he will find her in each thing he will fall in love with, and so will be it. The sound of anxiety roared its thunder of wrath and the snakes of all the anticipations have now crawled deep in their labyrinths. Over the hill of all the solitudes and on the top of the summit of all what he lived for, the little child stood up and his eyes ceased dropping their warm tears. A new era has begun and the true beginning of what he was born for has just reached its countdown. He is now standing there with his back against the olive tree of his childhood. A breeze of a new epoch refreshed his chest and he closed his eyes focusing on what could be his next destination. His deep thoughts were drinking from the tree wise spirit and his wrath was feeding from the perfume of its singing green leaves. The tree of wisdom had grown up wild and her branches pointed to all the directions. Her shade of emotions covered him with a feeling of a true mother. The olive tree is now hugging him with its majestic presence and a bond of life was established between the child and his true mother. The connection links to the superior layers that rest far above all the revelations that will lead him to that hidden world, where everything is so settled down. He was experiencing a trip away from the fear of this loneliness, a fantasy beyond the relaxation sphere, and an escape far away from her majesty the queen of reality. A butterfly of hope swung up and down around his nose inviting him to fly and move afar. He opened his eyes to realize that he was surrounded by a field of all the wonderful colors that nature could conceive. Wheat green stems were exceeding the heights with red poppies in the middle of a green carpet of life kneeled down in front of his determination and strong will. He stood up and took for a walk of life all the way down by the river of his strong sorrow that floods the banks of his traveling moments. Slow and hesitating were his steps carrying his dirge in the middle of the thrown stones and branches of a new existence. Far above behind him, the olive tree shook its twigs for a saying and whispered a wish: Flex your legs my cherished son and let them find their way in this empty space, for they are rusty and itching for a move. Leave your grief at the bottom of my trunk and let your senses reach up the ultimate patience, for that is what in the truth you were born for. Listen up to the stories that the winds of destiny will blow on your ears and let it go until you reach the corridors of safety. Let it fall down to the lower abyss of emotions and let it go ever higher to fly above your perception and lead you to the world of the gone away. Bring your pieces together and let your heartbeats drink from the memories of your childhood. Let your eyes drill into the sky of what is forever gone and reach up the stars of those who took your destiny to their graves. You can do it my son and so will be your duty. A destiny of yours, born to fight until the fight will start again. You came to struggle until the struggle will harsh up to exceed what your mind never will expect. You will grow in the middle of loneliness my son and you will struggle again and again. That is in the truth what your nature is made of, and that is what you will always be to mean. The mother is gone to forever and among the wilderness, you will stay alone like never ever. Single in your solitude my lovely social butterfly, alone in your own paradise now; your words will be salty and your breath will suffer a throttle. Tell about the feathers of your dreams and the colors of your horizons. Talk about those faces that walk around your bed and the voices that keep on resonating in your ears. Drink from your soreness and run across the fog of your lost destiny. Wash your face with the rain of your freedom and melt your revenge with the tears of your determination. Run and cover the distances, climb the mountains and jump over the ditches and let the laughter fill your journey. Do not worry about the scars of the time and do not listen to the sirens of your anger. Let it go and turn yourself loose until you reach those of yours who left without a trace; those who went far beyond the end of all the beginnings. There my dear son where you do belong, in that land of the brightest light. There, where the song forever will wrap the words of your wounded blues. There are moments when you will fall down and smash your face on your mother earth and smell its warm breath. There will be days when you will hug the stone of your remembrance and kneel down at its bottom. You will be sweeping your face against its sharp corners and bleed out of your thin front. Do not look behind, and never look back at your shadow. Do not open your eyes and never drop a tiny beam of tears. You are in the land of no existence and your fate was thrown in the flow of what will never be recovered. A deep sleep kept you far in the behind and your people have left the place. You woke up one early morning and all what you could hear was only silence. You rolled your eyes from side to side but only the cover of your solitude was wrapping your fear. Where did your people go and why you are still in the alone? Where did your belong go and why you had to be left behind? Did they leave or were they cursed by the wrath of your destiny? If you cannot be with your own be, why you have to be in this be? Why the sufferings and why the misery? Blow a breath of lamentation in the flute of this moment and let your bosom feel the notes. Let the ecstasy stream in your veins and reach up the far end of your torments. Let the sound of the days cry for you and sweep the tears of your falling face. I know what your feelings are about and I do venerate that look of your green eyes. It is a turn of life and your legs are carrying the weights. It is the end of an era and the clouds are coming for a visit. Drink from that cup of wrath that you save and go out of your refuge. Walk and walk so far away at the extent of the distances, until you arrive beyond the end of the never. Heave your bare feet and let your toes dive into the dry dust of your fate. Do not you ever worry and do not you ever look around. You will reach places that will not welcome you and you will gulp and swallow to your deep bottom the smoke of your twinge. You will reach heights and peaks of sorrow and you will hate the day when your mother went behind the never come back. You will roam and cover the distances; you will run in the sun and count the clouds. You will mark your path on the snow of ignorance of those of yours, and you will endure the soreness until you hate the day when it all began. The day your hands will join around your suffocating neck and your eyes will turn to the white; that day you will see the tunnel and have a glimpse of the way that will lay down to lead to where in the truth you meant to belong. An empty ecstasy and a sterile existence will take you from the hand and will lead you through the darkness and throw you in the catacombs. When your bones smash and mash down; when your head gets drunk of all the stress of the long way and your knees join your elbows seeking for a sleep. Then and only then, the smile of the sun will penetrate your cold bones and your ears will hear the birds of your childhood. El-Bechihi
 22/04/2006 Beatrix
Tears of desperation washing her face, Perfume in the air, hands deep in her purse; Searching for the lost, trash filled the place, Taking her time, afraid fearing the worse. A tick of a clock, time to leave the gable, No coffee this morning, apple will do the fine; The few coins she had, spread over the table, A guest she has to feed, austere holding the line. Trait of honor, a rock facing the flood, A chest full of love, always at the call; Queen of help, ready to offer her blood, Silent the whisper, eyes telling it all. From all the world, she only needs a five, A little money, she could get last night; The Jobless her guest, fighting to survive, She gave a promise, to save him the fight. Lost in her hope, not finding her money, In Search of her five, not able to find; She will play the lotto, and count the many, One half for her guest, the queen of her kind. Father of her Christ, Pope of her Jesus, Beatrix the saint, please do recognize; To the five, add all her golden wishes, Beatrix my saint, please do canonize.
>>>Published with her permission>>>
El-Bechihi
16/02/2006 Conversation with Lalla-Mahbouba
Note: Highlighted words are explained in the lexicon at the end of this page.
My steps were brave keeping the pace while the heat of August summer was topping the sky. There was a mixture of thirst and dryness chocking up my throat, and my tongue kept on trying to come to my rescue. Everything around was so silent and only the noise of my feet was keeping me company. The trail, carved by the flow of the years, snaked in front of me, as I was swept away by my thoughts while the heat of my sweat was steaming from all around my neck. I took up for a glance to the far above to what covered my sight, and I could see the roof of my beloved home shining high to the brightest. My feet, pushed by the impatient that I was, went up speeding the count in a hurry, while my heart was carried away by an immense joy that invaded my chest. She is there and her roof is waving so bright. She is there the mother of the braves. She is there my Lalla-Mahbouba, my true mother of all the time. When you live without mother, you learn to find her in everything you love. The outside of the walls, washed by the waves of the many droughts, is still keeping a dim white look of pride. The roof metal sheets, color of my lost destiny, are still holding the word, lifting our brave mountains above the beyond. The temple of Lalla-Mahbouba is now here, and I am in front of it; the icon of my tribe is still alive, and I am now part of it. As a came to step in through the gate, something attracted my attention. Marks of hands covered with Henna were left on each side of the entrance; they were left by my beloved Lalla. Following the sacred tradition, I reached up with my lips and swept a kiss on each side; that is to write my chapter on the temple of my holy shrine and to smell the scent of my holy Mother. When I went inside the temple's sole room, a fresh atmosphere embodied me. The Mother was hugging her prodigy after all these long years and I was so delighted. Once my eyes could clear up the light of the outside and distinguish the objects in the middle of the dimness, I could see a majestic form occupying the other side of the room. The tomb of Lalla-Mahbouba stood up in front of me, filling the time with its presence. A sensation of deep respect and holiness overwhelmed my body, as my lungs were inhaling the perfume coming from the multitude of green and white blankets that covered the grave. Sitting on the left side of the place, I could see that just by extending the left arm I could reach up and touch my Mother. I extended my legs wide apart and bulked my upper back on the stony wall. I half closed my eyes and I took up for a deep breath, since I am now home and I am safer than ever.
As I was deeply sunk in my relaxation effort, suddenly the seal of the doorway slapped the wall, and radiance got conquered; the twist closed up the gate, and seclusion took the right corner of the room. The temple went quiet, and a dim light drilled through the moldy roof with scattered wavy beams. Time was kept outside, and the about is about to be. Silence, only silence was revolving all around, and I am now part of this parallel existence. A strange feeling of deep safety swept me from my feet, a feeling of relief poisoned my perception, and I gave up to the calmness that covered my sweating body. My heartbeat was cooling down and I could feel the relaxation climbing my lower legs. I took a blink at the tomb, while I could feel my head getting heavier. I felt asleep, and I wanted to have a nap. It is always so when you go back to your mother's home. The first thing that you do is to lay down in your childhood corner and sleep. It is a natural human way to express the joy of feeling safe, just like when we once were inside of our Mother's belly. I dove into a deep sleep and time went away.
A fresh smell of a strong perfume prickled my nose, as I came back to life while opening my eyes. I had a thought to look at the right side toward the closed door where there was nobody. I turned slowly my sleepy eyes screening the area in a panoramic motion to end up at the tomb on my left side. I saw something but I was not sure if that was the fruit of my imagination or it was indeed something. I closed and opened my eyes trying to clear them up and be able to focus on the shape in the middle of the dimness. She was there on her bed, while still resting on her left elbow. In a reflex of a random motion, I tried to correct my position to sit down in a more polite way. I could not believe it. This woman that I see now must be Lalla-Mahbouba, as only she can be of this fascinating beauty. The legend was true and in fact her beauty exceeds and by far all what I have heard about her. Her long dark hair was wrapped with a lovely green scarf that had some black decoration on its extremities. Her face was so full of life, shining with unique wonderful penetrating black eyes. From under her red blankets I could see a marveling blue sky dress ornamented with beautiful flowers that differed in shapes and colors. She seemed to come out of a very deep sleep and her eyes went on scrutinizing the surroundings. I was not able to even swallow my tongue for fear to disturb her holiness. I was fighting hard to keep my strong heartbeats under control and I could feel my heart irritating my throat. She pulled herself to the back and took with her right arm two dark brown pillows covered with golden embroidery and placed them behind her back. She adjusted her sitting position and covered herself to the waste while leaving the tail of her scarf resting on her left shoulder. She moved her hands in a slow motion to lay them in front of her and joined them in a shaking position. She put her eyes on me and her face expressed a very beautiful hidden smile. You came back at last. I was not able to whisper a word and instead I tried to swallow my tongue. What took you so long? Have you forgotten who you are? My eyes exploded with heavy tears that flooded my cheeks to join up on my chin. The words crowded my throat but none of them could make it to the free. I tried to sweep my face with my right hand while trying to catch up with my breath. What will be the fate of this land without its children? What voices will resonate above these mountains if everybody flees away? What people will fill these woods if not my people? Even you my Son? I felt an overwhelming emotion warming up my heart while listening to her calm voice. She seemed whispering every word that comes out of her red marble lips and finally something moved my tongue and my voice could say something. Holy Lalla, you were always in my heart. She illuminated her corner with a brief smile and then turned her face away from me to her right side. She was gone away with her thinking and after a moment of silence she turned her face back to me. Tears were on her face and she fixed her crying eyes on me. It was a very distinct moment that kept me glued on my seat not daring to even move a finger. Nobody comes to visit me anymore and loneliness covered my time with a thick dust. They all went away and no one cares about this land anymore. The blessing that once was here in these mountains has turned to a silent sadness. They abandoned their roots and they removed me from their thoughts. There was a time when I was the Queen of all and my people were all around filling my world with a great joy. They used to come with their offerings and they never missed any occasion to come and enlighten my candles. The sound of their voices vanished away and I don’t hear their singing like in those golden years. Everything is so dry around my place and their horses died one after another. Where is the sound of the Gasba? Where are those Zorna melodies? The words of their Tabla hushed to eternity and the rhymes of their Bendir got buried in their lost memories. My Henna has faded away and the women of my people have dumped their pride. This wind from the east has brought a malediction to this land and El-Mehiaoui has given his last breath. My world is gone and I seek for an eternal sleep, but now you are here and life is back to me. My tears blinded my eyes and I was so embarrassed that I was not able to control my emotions. But I am here my Lalla. She smiled wide and moved aside leaving some space on her bed on her left side. With her left hand she taped twice on her bed in the freed spot. Son of my hero, please come and sit beside me. I was not able to move and a total confusion invaded my thoughts. How could I dare and sit beside the holy Mahbouba? I hesitated for a while when she shifted right a little more leaving more space on her left side. Come my Son, it has been an eternity since I saw you last time. You were a little child full of energy and I still can hear the sound of your bare feet when you used to play around. In a slow confused motion I brought all my parts together in an attempt to stand up. I was not able to feel my feet and could not distinguish if I was walking toward her or some mysterious power was carrying me toward her. I came out from my confusion when I felt her left arm around my shoulders. I adjusted my position so that I don’t take more space than necessary when to my extreme joy she put a kiss on my face. Tell me my Son, how was life with you? How did you find your way to me after all these long eternal years? Life took me through the worst and a Gladiator I became. My days followed a harsh stream and my nights darkened with lamentations. I went from land to land and I crossed oceans and continents. I opened my heart to the eternal hopes and I gave my ears to the words of wisdom. I turned around and met souls and fates. My world was empty and my heart full of rage. Fear played with my moments and my path went through ups and downs. Loneliness was my only companion and I was a social butterfly. It has been so many long years since I lost the meaning of the word home. The years passed by and the time circled above; the nights come and go and the days followed their stream. That little crawling rock, rocked by the tick of time, has bumped onto a place in the land of nowhere. The blink of an eye, the flash of a shining beam of memory, and a light stroke the dusk. A fragment of a smile from my cradle came to my dreams and high above the heights the sound of our cows waved from these holly mountains. From this shrine so single and unique where it all began, you my Lalla blew up a whisper in my veins. It is the color of my blood, the genes of my beloved father, and the laughter of my childhood. They all brought me here to seek for a drop of a blessing from my Lalla. She took a very deep breath while turning her face away to the right side and dove into some deep thoughts. She moved her left hand and gently pulled my head to make it rest on her left shoulder. Her fine hand was caressing my head while we both kept on silent listening to the shrill sounds of cicalas singing outside behind the walls of the temple. She took another long deep breath and went on talking above my head. Our fate is the same my Son. I myself was born and raised in a far land. My people are not your people and there among mine I was respected and venerated for my leadership. I was the bosom on which the tears were poured from the weak and the oppressed. I was the word of wisdom that guided them in their daily life. I was a Queen without castle and my voice reached the elderly and the young. My little home was the shelter of the poor and the destination of all kind of visitors. I was ruling with the words of my ancestors and my heart was open to the rich and the deprived. I gave everything and I had nothing of mine except for my blessed white horse. They venerated me and made of me a Saint all along my days among them. One night, as I was sleeping in my little room, I had a dream. It was more than a dream, it was a vision. I saw an old man wearing a white Burnous standing at the entrance of my room. His white clean beard was well maintained and his eyes were shining green just like yours. He had his right arm behind and with his left hand he was putting his weight on an olive tree stick. I asked him to come in and be among my guests but he apologized and said that he must go. He went on talking and told me that he came with a message that I have to listen to. He said that my time to go to the other world has come and I must prepare myself for the trip. I asked him about what I am supposed to do since I am within my people in my native land and I should be buried among my ancestors. He kept silent for a while and then he continued. You will ask your people to put your dead body on your horse and let it walk away through the tribes and the woods. When the horse reaches your place he will lay down and rest. They have to dig for your grave at that place and there you will rest in peace. I was moved by his words and kept on weighing the extent of his message. I wanted to say so be it but the old man was already gone and I came out of my dream. Early in the morning I called the wise of my people and told them about what I saw. They were so unhappy by the news and tried to convince me to take it just as a dream. I was determined to follow the prophecy and asked them to fulfill my wishes. I went back to my bed and tried to take a nap. That was my last moment in this world and my soul went back to Yovna our mother star. My people were brave and followed my last wishes and so my horse went on carrying me in our final trip to the land of the unknown. My people were following the horse in a deep sorrow and no one of them felt tired or whispered a voice of a word. After seven days of a long trip my horse came to this place and exactly at this spot he bulked down. My people did not know if that was it or the horse will stand up and continue his trip. But after a long day of waiting the sunset illuminated these mountains with a majestic red orange sky and the night invaded the corners. My people fell asleep and each one of them leaned down and rested under the weight of the tiredness of such a long trip. Early the next day my people started coming out one after another of their deep sleep. They were surprised to find the horse still in the same position but his soul went away with his beloved Queen. The older of my people made a requiem speech and asked his followers to be ready for the burial. At this same moment voices came out from these woods and your people showed up in a massive number of brave men. They looked so concerned by the event and they were rushing down to join my people. Your grandfather was leading them and he was the one who talked and asked my people about what was happening on his land. Once he heard the story his eyes became red of emotions and drops of tears covered his face. He kneeled down in front of my dead horse with my body still over him and said his famous words. This woman is from us and we are her people. This day will be my tribe’s day and by God we deserved the right to burry her. He asked my people to be his guests and the two tribes together buried me and my horse side by side as you see now. He then built for me this shrine and both of our people spent the night around my temple celebrating the event. Since then, the same day of each year, your people came with their women, children, and guests from other tribes to celebrate my day. They became my people and I became the Queen of their hearts and their holly Saint. They kept me company and they never failed spoiling me like one of theirs. But since few decencies now and after that wind that blew up from the Far East, our tribe left the land and I stayed alone with my loneliness. Nobody comes to visit me anymore and even their goats and their cows have disappeared forever. This place was once a temple but now it is just a forgotten grave of an ancestor. As you see my Son, our fate is the same, as I was abandoned by my tribe and you were left to yourself without any roof to give you a shelter. I escaped and buried myself within a deep sleep and you my Son, rebel like your father, you went away beyond the oceans and the continents chasing what is gone forever. Today you are here and your presence is filling my world with happiness. So my little Son, stay with me this time and never leave your Lalla alone anymore. I was listening to her words enjoying the warmth of her lovely hand playing with my hair. My eyes felt heavy and I closed them to enter the world of dreams. A large wide heavy wooden door opened in front of me and a blast of strong light blinded my eyes. The sun was so bright, the sky was a wonderful clear blue, and the field was waving with green wheat stems. A little breeze came over and the field waved in an angelic dance of freedom. I was attracted by the presence of a Man far on the other side of the field. The Man was waving to me asking me to join him; but due to the far distance I was from him, I was not able to distinguish his face. I walked faster toward him and went through the field wheat stems that were covering me to my shoulders. The man did not move from his place and I could now see his smiling face. He was my beloved father and he was there waiting for me. A loud scream came out of my throat and my voice bubbled the word I never had the chance to say:"Father!!!". My legs were running and I was trying to fly. I was not feeling my feet while running toward him and my crying eyes never went away from him for fear that I loose him again. As I had him in my reach I opened my arms and jumped in his wide open arms. While he was hugging me so tight and my face kissing his face, the voice of Lalla-Mahbouba whispered in my ears: "Rest in peace my lovely Son." They say that there was the woman and the horse, but now they will say there is the woman, the Son, and the Horse. My holy Lalla is no more alone. The place is indeed a temple and it is now more peaceful than ever.
The words talk about a dream, but when will the dream become true? The words drop them blood and agony, but they will never say it enough. El-Bechihi
Lexicon:
Tabla: A traditional drum used in the Algerian folk music. Zorna: A wind instrument played traditionally with the Tabla. El-Mehiaoui: A very famous singer and dancer in my native land. Bendir: A traditional music instrument used in Algerian Folk music. Yovna: A star where I believe all my family souls will converge. Burnous: An Algerian traditional dress for Men. Gasba: A bamboos wind instrument (a long flute) used in the Algerian Folk Music. 11/02/2006 What is it?I don’t like this sound that prevents me from closing my eyes and go for a share of dreams. My heartbeats are making a horrible noise that keeps on taking this heavy stress into a continuous progress of threat. They are the drums of a false promise that send their vibrations to shake up my head and exhort it out from its final rest. Tell me about that appointment with my path and I will pack my anxiety in my way to go out for my ultimate trip. Tell me about those stories that left me alone with my hopes and I will listen up until I fall asleep. Shake up my sorrow and display out the wonderful colors of my childhood. Twist hard my fate and send out a thunder of wrath for the storm to pinch up the events of my promised tomorrow. No truth in my sight and no life in my thinking. No murmur of that creek and my world is dry of emptiness. My door is open and I see shadows in a clear moon light. They are jumping around with faces of a big smile greeting me with a satirical ignorance. My body is cold and a fever of homelessness is scratching up my left hand. The sound of frogs is escalading high the hills of darkness. The whisper of silence is taking me from my right hand to step into this muddy path that is caressing my bare feet to a sensation of pain. Wake up dear myself and go out to face up the howling of all these enchanting voices. Follow the traces of your people and enter those holly woods. When you reach up the heights and you leave your empty home behind all your remembrance. When you look around, to find out that you can no more hear the voices of your ancestors. When you lack for a drop of affection and you can’t find that chest of your first breath. When your eyes reflect the sky of a starry night and your throat sends out the hushed sound of your desperation. When you feel your head so heavy and rest your back on that brave old rock. When your tears find their way to the free and you cover up your face with your cold hands. Then and over that little tiny break of time, you will receive a moment of freedom that will embody you with an eternal sense of nothing. What is it? Why I am here? Where are my moments? Why I can’t sleep? El-Bechihi 23/01/2006 Mohamed RacimBorn in 1896 in a family of artists from which he inherited the art of miniatures. Early in his childhood he started his journey with his art until he reached a very high technical level. His name became the synonym of his art and he well deserved his reputation. He was very affected by the Muslim civilization and the past of the city of Algiers his native town. Unfortunately at his time this civilization was buried in the memories by the French colonization. He made a strong contribution in bringing this glorious past up to the surface through his unique marvels. In another words, Mohamed Racim did fight the French occupation on the artistic front. That is why he always tried to take his miniatures to perfection. Racim succeeded to awaken the Algerian pride through the subjects of his miniatures. Racim did correct the history of Algeria and brought it back to where it belongs. He died in 1975 but his followers are still following his steps to keep the Algerian art of miniatures unique as the beauty of the land, the sky, and the free human being that we Algerian are.
El-Bechihi
For more on Mohamed Racim please do visit the folowing links:
http://members.aol.com/mracim/racimoeu.htm http://www.el-mouradia.dz/francais/algerie/portrait/portrait.htm
06/01/2006 M'Hamed IssiakhemM'Hamed Isiakhem is a very famous Algerian artist; he was born in June 17, 1928. As he was a little kid , during World War II, he saw the allied forces invading the country, as Algeria was a French colony at that time. His curiosity led him to run after one American military truck and jump inside of it to steel something that he wanted to play with. He was happy with his new toy and went away balancing it from one hand to another until suddenly a big explosion blasted his left hand away. He then realized that he just lost most part of his left hand and the toy was in fact a little bomb. That was the shock of his life, which reflected on most of his work. A signature of a hand and a touch of sorrow, characterize most of his marvels. That is why his style went more into a tragic abstracted expressionism, which is now the tendency of many of his followers in the land of unique artists, our mother Algeria. He died in December 1, 1985 from cancer but his art will live to eternity. Just before he died he said his famous words:" A country without artists is a dead land; a society is forever in a vital need for creative artists". The meaning of these words are more appreciated if you keep in mind that in Algeria at that time, artists were not well considered as they do now.
El-Bechihi
For more on Issiakhem, please do follow this link... (In French of course). 22/12/2005 The Queen of Love wrote this...
I heard a whisper, down in the east, Telling the story of a broken nest; Ramble of a soul, seeking for a rest, Murmur of the time, love is never lost. There is a bloom, that does not fade, Not found in Eden, nor glow of Jade; It is a blossom that roots in love, Roses and lilac in the sky above. Sultan of the names, the Queen of love, Eyes of gazelle, the blink of a dove; Moon of the smiles, in a clear night, Heart full of love, to forever bright. Sitting at her window, gone with her mind, Curly black hair, unique in her kind; Round of the face, traces of a sorrow, Away with her dreams, flying in tomorrow. A suitcase in a corner, lonely in her room, Waiting for the rise, hushed praying her doom; Eyes in the sky, Yovna star of my Queen, Early in her trip, at station sixteen. She loved true, pouring all her tide, Gave him the best from a deep pride; Failed her trust, dumped her to sears, Leaving the rest, to a flow of tears. To ever he shall vanish, in hell he shall burn, On him she put a spell, never he will return; A dance from the stars, singing her a tune, Her fate yet to claim, the Queen of her throne. Her love a word of honor, no fickle no tweak, Her liver knows the fire, her heart a single seat; Ears on her door, waiting for her knight, A trip on her wish, a blast into the bright. In the day of twenty-two, month of December, Two of the thousand, five made the lumber; A story of my Queen, words made the ample, Her love is her truth, a mark on her temple. El-Bechihi
Yovna: A star where I beleave all ma family members souls will converge.
The QUEEN OF LOVE is a 16 years old girl somewhere in the middle east, the space of whom can be found here: http://spaces.msn.com/members/shoosh21/ She was dumped in her true deep love and, seeking for a beam of hope, she sprays magic words in her Blog. It is in Arabic and that is why I came up with these few words to take her voice beyond the language barriers.
16/12/2005 Jailed in Paradise
It goes and it goes, for it will never end; this random motion of space that keeps me jailed in a tiny cubic entity of time. It had rocked in all the directions and rolled down through all the bumpy hills and cliffs. Its carcass has been restless bouncing and turning my world around in a tornado of days. This vacuum of existence that keeps me captive in the middle of an agitated flow of doom is squeezing my ribs to suffocation. Its walls of a dimmed glass raised tall all around, wrapping my little share of fate, keeping me fighting for a grip of clamber. Never could I enjoy the chance to reach up to the heights or even make it above the ground, failing to resist the temptation of following my weight in its way to the lower abyss of the western side of my sphere. I look around and scrutinize the tiny number of corners that form my world, looking for a sign of hope. My eyes roll back of desperation and my brain get seized into a loop of confusion. Everything is so silent and the silence resonates in a sound of a high river falls. It could be that my ears have had a drop of deafness and they are now diving into a cave of illusions, as I can see a rain of challenges sliding down against the other side of my glassy walls. In the center of my little garden, a tree stood up tall and rife with its branches leaning down, heavy with perished hours and minutes. The prophecy written on my skull is about to spread out its wings and the story of father Adam is in its way to repeat itself. I have a hunger for the survival and I have been starving since my first cry. I have a thirst for life but my Eden has been a dry oasis of dunes and stony hills. How did I come here? What is the purpose of this endless struggle? What is it this phenomena that led me to end up under the roof of this lamentation gable? What are all these graves that populate my little territory? Is this my promised land or have I lost the trail of my people?
I open my eyes and try to broaden them wide, but under the heavy burden of the dream they fail to obey and stay half open. I lift my head above my hallucinations and look through my glassy walls in an effort to have a glance from the outside world. It is deep dark and very heavily raining. A jungle of dense vegetations and tall trees surrounds the place. No sign of life and no movement of any living being except for the trees that are waltzing at the music of the angry winds. I am alone in the middle of nowhere and I never had any choice to come here. I am lonely in this lost corner and I have no memories of any past or even any present. What did bring me here to this lost piece of fate? Am I taking part of a reality or my era is over? What is happiness if I have to spend my time in this closed garden? Is this a waiting room for the unknown? What am I waiting for and what is it that will make of me a living being?
The pain of lamentations is so painful that my head is now so heavy and falls down over my chest. My left hand tries to escape and run away from my body but it does meet in its way the big toe of my left foot. My hand is caressing my foot while suddenly drops of blood come out of my nose and cover my bony feet. The blood cumulates all around in a form of a little lake. The branches of the tree make a disturbing noise. They are trying to lean down in an effort to go even lower than what their flexibility can allow and I can hear some of them being broken. With their leaves, the tree branches reach down to my lost blood and go on sucking it in a very slow motion. My tree of life is trying to save the blood of my family in a gesture of last hope, seeking to recover my perished bequest. The tree pulls back its branches and they now stand tall and high red of blood. Each leaf has got a drop of my blood and fall colors are now covering the tree of my life. A big noise of a mixture of laughter, screaming, crying and calling for help, comes out of the tree. All the sounds are so confusedly mixed with each other in a form of a symphony of weeping that vibrates all around my little jail. I lift up the eyes toward the tree to see that each leaf of it has changed to a human face. They are all faces of me at different moments and years of my life. I can see my baby faces and I can see my other child, teenager and adult faces as well. They all seem to be struggling against something and each one of them looks so brave and innocent. I cannot see these faces anymore and I close my eyes while hiding my head between my chest and my arms. The noise keep on targeting my ears and after a while they hush down and I finally can find some peace and feel every part of myself again. They are all still with me and soon they will be taken away by one of those tree boughs. This is me, and all these parts all together are what make of me this jailed being. My legs, my arms, my head, and all these parts that I have at my disposal are what seem to be me, the living entity that is trapped in this garden. They are all sentenced to keep me company until the end of time. We are all stuck in this green house with no glimpse of any beam of sun that could chase the darkness of this paradise.
Everything is painfully silent and the noise of anxiety bells is yawning into my ears. I try to dive into a trip of doze in an attempt to flee away from this reality. I let it down trying to pretend that nothing is really happening and I do still have the power to ignore this state of mind. It is silent, scarily silent, and all the tension of this endless struggle is falling down all around my shoulders that I start to taste the honey of a slight relief. Time is taking a break and the existence is having a nap. Everything is fine, now that I am able to go out of this flow and be part of a parallel reality, where I have a better control of my surroundings. I stay there willingly and I love the feeling of freedom that I can enjoy away from myself.
Suddenly and from the end of no beginning, I can hear a laughter coming out from somewhere around or that is what I think so. I am not certain if I am drunk of this surreal moment or it is indeed a genuine laughter. I try to turn off my thinking and lift my hearing above my ears, unleashing the hope in an effort to distinguish what seems to be coming down from the roof above. A woman voice is sending bursts of laughter that seem to come out from different directions. I can’t believe it that I now finally have some company in this lost corner. Is anybody there? I keep quiet and I am waiting while feeding my thoughts with hopes of desperation. Silence hammers my head and, having received no echo, I finally give up and get ready to fly back into my parallel reality. As I am ready to do so, I get pulled back by the woman voice saying something that I could not discern. The voice does indeed exist and I now have no doubt about it. Where are you? Who are you? Are you there? Bubbles of a scattered cry come out of my chest and drift away from my throat at the idea that finally I am no more alone in this forgotten emptiness. A reverberation clears out its way to my circle and the ground under my feet gets shaken up that I felt daisy. Yes my Son, I am here; don’t you see me? She calls me my Son, although I never had any memory of any Mother that I could reference myself to. Is my Mother back to save me and make it to me for all the long lost years? Is my mother back to give me the breast that will nourish me happiness and piece of mind? Do I finally have a Mother that will bring my world together and make of me a Mortal? Tears blind my eyes and all my body members enter into a total confused motion that left me between trying to stand up or keep frozen in my bulked position. Mother, are you there? Yes my Son. Are you my Mother? Why I can’t see you? I am here my Son; don’t you feel my whisper? No Mother, I don’t see any sign of you, but I still can feel the pain of your loss. Where are you? What is your name? Why you’re always absent when I have been looking for you since I remember? Isn’t the place of a Mother always by her Son? I am here my son and I was always around. My name is Destiny and I am the only mother you have ever had. I have the heart for you and I never left you alone. I made your days and a darkened your nights. I heard your cries and I counted your tears. I have the bosom full of your love and I always loved to play with you. I saw you growing and I paved your path. I counted your steps and I cleaned your way. I lightened your candles and I shaped your shadow. I am your definition and I am the source of all your events. I am your so beloved Mother; I am your Destiny. She laughs and her voice comes out clear and sound. Holly Mother, my beloved Destiny, I am so happy to have you back. Please forgive the tears and the shaking, as I don’t know how a Son should feel about his Mother. What do you want my Son? What can I do for you? Holly Mother, sweet Destiny; I am tired and my horses are starving hunger. I am drained, and my angel guests are knocking on my eternal doors. There in my land, my cows are dry and my milk is lean; my goats are gloating, and I must go there to enter the woods. The voice of my inside is full of that cry that never could make it to the free. I want to go back to those days, those moments when I could not see the clouds that were to cover my trees. How many streets I loved and how many corners talked with my name? My heart was beating energy and the soul was for the gorgeous sunset. Reddish illumination talking about love and the shadow of love took all my dreams. The woods, the roads, the hills and those brave mountains made the conversations and I was the child and the knight. My tears used to shake the stones and the street dogs rested on my legs. The butterflies guided me to the eternal food and the graves kept me company. Where are those green fields? Where are those wild wolves? Could they send some of their magic and let that early morning fog embrace my weary grown bosom? The distances were so short and the sight never took it from my knees; hills and valleys welcomed me when I was the master of the lands. What was in me those nights when I slept my back to that lost tree; it was a deep sleep that harmonized with the down creek’s talking. It was darkness that showed the bright light; it was so warm when hunger hugged me in the days and said its prayers in the nights. Bread was so tasty and those blessed olives were so sweet. The birds of those lands learned my songs at the rhythm of the frogs that meditated on the down side. There was no headache and there was no roughness, it all was part of my world and they were my sole family. Heavy clouds of silence invades my jail and the voice of my Mother has faded away behind the dusk. The winds outside have lifted their blowing to a higher level and the branches of the trees are striking against my glassy walls. A storm was born and its noise is more and more threatening. Mother, are you there? The winds blow and pass by the roof of my jail in a symphony of anger. Noise of branches and flying twigs hammering the outside of my glassy walls come out loud and sound. Fear has sent its army to invade my little world. I am now at the mercy of her majesty QUEEN OF FEAR, and powerless as I am in my jail, I keep silent in my corner. The hope in my heart and the memories in my head are holding me alive, while waiting for the return of my Mother. My thoughts go to those faces of me that are hanged on the branches of my tree of life. When will they rest in peace? What is their guilt that they have to endure my fate? Each one of them seems to have come at the wrong time in the wrong place. No one of them had any choice to be one of mine. If I only had the power to change the decoration and the weather of this jail, I would make of those faces of mine fruits of happiness. I would color each one of them with a flower of a single species. The tree of my life would be a Blue Lilac with its flowers eternally fresh and rife. This is the human being and the way it was created. Although it came with such a complicated logic, everything of it and each law governing its logic seems to be made the wrong way. The words in my thoughts continue to flow and they now form a river of dreams in my heads. The words talk and select the vocabulary at the best of their ability, but they will never say it enough and the questions will blossom in my inside, adding to the hell of pain that I have been enduring since my first sob.
While absorbed by my tranquility a whisper comes to my left ear and pulls me out of my sleep. My mother’s voice is back and she is telling me something. Hope comes back to my chest and I jump out of my dream. Mother, are you there? My Son, I am here and I never went away. Where are you Mother? Why I can’t see your face? Nobody can see the face of his Destiny my Son. But Mother, I need you. I am here my Son and I will never let you down. Suddenly I could distinguish a human shape suspended in the air. A very long dark brown hair covers her right side and it is so long that it is waving around the feet level. The face is hidden behind a smoke of fog, but the rest of the body is clear except for the feet that seem to be not there. A long dress colored with a breath taking sky blue color, adorned with little forms here and there in very elegant embroidery. A perfume of lilac came into my nose and filled my lungs with a sensation of safety. Mother, I want to get out of this jail and run away from this garden. My Son, why you want to run away from your Mother's place? Isn’t the home of a child by the side of his Mother? Mother, I want to be free and fly like a bird to wherever the winds will take me. I want to restructure my moments and sweep the tears of the child I was. I want to get my family back under the same roof and sit among them, while listening to my grandfather’s legacy. I want our land to flourish and our meadow to wave with fresh grass. I want to hear the voices of my people calling each other with words of love. I want to hear the sound of our cows coming back to fill our buckets with spring milk. I want to hear the flow of the creek of our meadow. I want to hold the hand of my father and take him back home where my Mother is waiting for dinner. I want to say words of love and devotion to sisters and brothers that I will have. I want to stand at the highest summit of our land and look around and say: “this is me and this is the life that I always wished”. My Son, those are indeed beautiful dreams. No, I want them to be reality. I want to live the life I myself choose. Not yet my Son; not yet. Mother, I am tired of waiting and I am tired of this garden; can’t you just take me in your arms and fly away from this place? Aren’t you my Mother destiny? Not yet my Son; not yet. How long I have to suffer this situation? How long I have to endure the pain of this garden? You have to wait until the last of your journey faces get possessed by a leaf of your tree of life. You have to wait until your heart get dried from its blood while suffering your lamentations. You have to wait until your tears drop and poure down in a flow that will end up digging the path for a river that will make your tree grow to its final height. You have to wait until each of your family members take a ride to his grave one after another. You have to wait until you see your legs no more able to carry your mushy body. When your voice will not be of any help for you to send a hum of pain, then and only then, I will come back and take my lovely Son away from this place. But until then my dear lonely Son, you will stay where you are, jailed in this paradise. A strike of energy pinches my body and I jump out of my bulked position. I stand up on my feet and I run toward my Destiny trying to catch a piece of her. She vanishes away and I end up the face against the western glassy wall of my jail. I go on punching the wall with both of my fists trying to break its glass, while screaming as high as my voice could breathe out: “You are not my Mother. You are not my Destiny. Soon or late, I will find the way to get out of this paradise. I have always defied you and I never accepted your arrogant fate. Nothing could ever happen in my life without a fight and I will fight again and again. I will give you the best of the fights that you ever had. I will run out of here and I will free myself from this paradise”. A scattered sound of laughter vanishes in the air and she disappears.
El-Bechihi 14/12/2005 Saint AugustineSt-Augustine is a great Christian theologian known for his bright philosophical style and level of thinking. Among his works the confessions and the city of God. He was born in the 13th of November 354 after J.C in MADAURE in the vicinity of Thagaste (my native town). He lived and studied as a child in Thagaste where he stayed until he was designated as the Bishop of Hippone where he died in 430.
I do share the pride with my Ancestor Augustine of being born in the same place and from the same Berber blood.
El-Bechihi
Notice: For more information about St-Augustine please do visit this web link:
It is the most detailed and well organized web site dedicated to Augustine that you can find at this moment. Etienne DinetAlphonse Etienne Dinet is a French artist who was born in 1861 within a rich family in Paris. He traveled to Algeria, which was a French colony at that time; first in 1883 as a visitor but then he returned in 1884 to stay as a permanent resident. He fell in Love with the Algerian Sahara and in 1905 he chose to live in the beautiful city of Bou-Saada at the door of the Algerian Desert. He met an Algerian Friend (Slimane Ben Brahim Baâmar ) from the Berber tribe of Ouled Nail. Their friendship was so tight that it allowed him to be introduced among the people of his friend’s tribe. He succeeded to learn the local language, which helped him to be accepted into the intimacy of the tribe and be considered as one of them. He painted the daily life and the traditions of his adoptive people. He even decided to convert to Islam and changed his name to Nassr-Eddine Dinet. He went for a pilgrim to Mecca in April 2, 1929 and as he returned to France from his pilgrim he died in the same year in Paris. He was buried according to his final wishes in the city of Bou Saada among his adoptive family.
El-Bechihi
For more information please do visit these web links if however you can make it in French as well.
http://www.diagnopsy.com/Dinet/Pages/000.htm
http://www.bou-saada.net/etienne_dinet.htm
http://reproduction-of-old-paintings.com/orient_fr/dinet.php 21/11/2005 Letter to Myself  Take the ride Jade, time for you to leave, Pack your sorrow and sip your cup of pain; No food you need, only your stick to heave, A traveler you’re born, a nomad you’ll remain. Voices in your head, screaming the loud, The heart pinching the pain of a story; A throat in choke, hushing the sound, A breath in your deep, so alert in worry.
Take the ride Jade, time to start the fight, Battle hiding the next, bleeding you'll survive; Broken of a heart, the strength of a knight, Fighter you’re born, warrior you’ll thrive. Turn your face to the sparkling stars, Yovna your mother shining the lime; A mark on the sky for each body scars, That now is your turn for a crumb of time. Get it from the end of the never, Take it, it was always yours; Jump high and crossover the hover, Climb the walls and align it to your course. Throw that cry and wash your face with the sun, Tears of fate, water for all doom of life; Have your thoughts for those left in the gone, Torn in your deep, your stem thirsty for a rife. I have a pity for you and I do, I have a word for you and I do really do; I have prayers for you and I will always do, A rock of your kind is a garden of all the do. The volcano over that hill is red of threat, A sound of a thunder darkening your sight; Winds waved your trees, music notes of fret, Your land is arid, time to start your fight. Get out of this snaky yellow labyrinth, Free yourself from this flood of the days; Swim the mud and reach up to your strength, Clean up your eyes, for they will fade the grays. 
This drum that I hear, itching me for a dance, I can’t move, if only I could pray my hips; This song waving me for a remembrance, I can’t scream, if only I could beg my lips. Take the ride Jade, go down beyond that shield, The unknown is a silence, a hive of murky sweet; Run free, race the wind through that grassy field, You can do it Jade, it's only your rusty feet.
El-Bechihi Yovna : A star where I believe all my family souls will converge. 16/11/2005 A Train Ride
My bag shallow and dry, pocket empty in sorrow, Hunger starving the pride, my hopes food of tomorrow; Nowhere asked the day, the train has made the sound, The path searched the way, for who lost in the crowd. The train rushing the smooth, tearing hills and mountains, Tunnels bearing the weights, dusk playing the curtains; Fields jade of the bliss, winter had left the place, Calves playing with cows, a smile brightened my face. Trees sitting the quiet, warming feeling the sun, Snow browned the twigs, nature spell of the fun; That farm saying the words, a home love of the sight, Horses hearing the song, lonely seeking a knight. The heart wide in delight, the eyes know where to rest, The wish praying the hopes, may they give me the best; My kismet I have to chase, for a share I got a thirst, The egg called the chicken, did you or was I the first. Dove brought me the news, with eyes blinking the beauty, Child, smile of my dream, green eyes, gift of the Mighty; My knees bending the rust, belly thrive to escape, My hair steeling the grays, body went out of shape. Bechihi I got a stem, Tayeb named the pride, Father heart of my grief, to Yovna he took a ride; My fate queen of my path, on me she put a spell, My years she took the days, of nights she made a hell. Queen death haunting my thoughts, a bell voicing the sound, Whisky last of my toast, a rope ashes to ground; Yovna queen of the stars, my fate stone of my ring, This mist shall clear the sight, Ashley the best will bring.
El-Bechihi
In the train traveling from Lausanne (swizerland) back to Salzburg; it tells about the trip and my state of mind.
Lexicon:
Bechihi: Relative to Ouled-Bechih the name of my Berber family Tribe (Native people of Norrth Africa). It is the biggest tribe in my native town region . Tayeb: My beloved father who gave his life for freedom before my second spring. Yovna: A star where I believe all my family Souls will converge. 05/11/2005 Anybody there?There is a way that goes through the memories and leads it all the way to the bottom of the intimacy. It is a journey that fades on a sun that shines with all the events and the moments that are gone and will never show up again. It is the breeze of the desperation and the rain of the emotional clouds. Those they come with the winter of the truth and pinch up the storm of the tears to feed the river of life. You can sit down and hold up your head amid your hands and try to control the flow of the days, but it will never be tamed. What is the meaning of all this hassle that takes the moments to the heights and paint our dreams with a rainbow of illusions? What is this pain that we have to endure for our survival? Shall I dive into the mother of the questions that will lead me into the labyrinth of the forgotten? Shall I drink my sorrow and swift my breath to throw out the years and the long tragedy? I cannot open my window to look out at my garden for fear to see the autumn leaves that undress the trees of my family. I cannot open the doors of my little solitude to the visitor that threaten my sweet memories. Where is the stone of heaven that I was promised when I came to life? Where is the beginning that I still have to start from? Why all this dark journey that left me in the middle of this nowhere? Whenever I start from a beginning, the path goes into an unknown trail that leads to a summit of another exile. I have a deep feeling for those days and they are still living up to my heartbeat. I am afraid that they will disappear when I close up my eyes for my final rest. What will happen to my people when I go away? Will they still say the word that took my father behind that hill? Will they meet around the same table and talk about my grandmother? The land is with its people and my land is so thirsty. I will give my blood to keep it alive and set my soul free through the heights of that wonderful place where it all began. What sound resonates among the trees of my childhood? The traces of my feet and the laughter of my cousins they live in those bushes and between the ruins of our first home. My drink is empty and my candle is burning without any pity. I wish if I could make it pause for a while until I figure out a way to change it all the way it was meant to be. Those eyes of all the innocence that kept my smile hidden behind the fog of the hunger of my early days tourned out to jade. The river of life never made it through to my meadow and my roses are dying. My blue lilac is no more virgin and her perfume is perishing. The field of my doom is arid and the birds have left the place. My moments are a loan of my tomorrow and I need a rest. The words flow up and flood my thoughts but they will never say it enough. The words will cry heavy tears but they will never reach up to that level where my relief seeks for a breath. What do I need to do? Why all this mess?
El-Bechihi 15/10/2005 SOLITUDE
Sitting on a chair, one leg hugging another, His arms on the table, not knowing each other; The head falling the down, cluster black of the grape, His eyes carried away, in search for an escape. Silent hushing the say, the face hairy and slim, Away beyond the time, the room empty and dim; Bottle cheap of the wine, shining gloomy and red, The blue dimming a glass, filled bottom to head. Flame eating a candle, the roof waving the floor, Singer blowing the voice, the walls groaning the door; Piano rolling the notes, cello telling the clues, Rhymes twelve of the never, Jerri-Brown the blues. Lost amid his kismet, the head heavy and drunk, Sinking deep in his past, the heart shaking the trunk; Soul swallowing the words, music oil of the rhyme, Moment loan of the next, the time not of his time. His fate tired to chase, mercy out of the grace, Street dog roaming alone, his home none of the place; Doom scenting betrayal, with lies always she spoke, His girl not of his world, to gone chasing a smoke. His tree of many boughs, book lone of the chapter, Life taming the roughs, his grief shading the laughter; Yovna the mother star, bright, home of the father, H'biba waving the sign, sad, missing her brother.
El-Bechihi
Lexicon: Yovna: A star where I believe all my family souls will converge. H’BIBA: My beloved sister HABIBA, who passed away after her second spring. May her Soul rest in peace. Jerri-Brown: One of my favorite singers. Twelve of Never: Relative to Jerri-Brown's song (End of Never) 04/10/2005 Dylan
In a stable we met, pure love, at the first sight, Stallion, single of kind, the dream of every knight; Lovely royal and tall, black shining the splendor, My horse of all the time, love styling the candor. My day of beginning, meek, saddle you robed; The head against my back, face on me you rubbed, Novice were my first steps, still, serene you waited, Tense I was confused, smooth, in fright you halted. Sunday of each week, awake before the sun, Early hitting the road, to you speeding the run; Apple fresh of carrot, the food choice of my horse, Darkness blinding the sight, in snow facing the worse. Rushing toward your spot, my feet taking the lead, Cute eyes of my Dylan, unique my lovely steed; Head against my shoulder, happy teasing your friend, Eyes telling a whisper, Ashley will understand. The heart pinching of love, my hands brushing your back, Your lips eating my hair, my laugh upping the jack; Noble trot of your steps, tempo waving the air, Horses swinging the heads, noisy, cheering the pair. Twins clone of the nature, the style joined the pride, Dylan Ashley the pair, graceful top of the ride; Riders from all the groups, lined stealing the glance, Horse joined the rider, the show is to commence. Graceful were your gallops, always head of the line, The traits of parody, faithful, proud and divine; Proud beside my wonder, Fans blinking the flashes, Of me you made a star, smooth style of the marshes. A day I will retain, a stab deep of the wound, Stable silent and cold, horses hushing the sound; Your room empty in grief, Dylan has left the place, My heart chocking the throat, of you there was no trace. Dylan lost of my rhymes, for you last of the song, My tears and requiem, shall flow my life along; Dylan first of my last, loyal truth of the bound, My skies graying the clouds, Dylan no more around. My world empty of love, no warm no tender breath, Curse haunting my people, to gone farewell or death; In grief mourning the loss, Dylan is now away, Now and my eternal, with you my heart will stay.
El-Bechihi 15/09/2005 LETTER TO ST-AUGUSTINE    Augustine of Thagaste and Madaure,
Hippone the cathedral and the shore. Lonely in my fate, I need to talk, In your garden, I do wish to walk; Nomad, not lucid my horizon, In land of the lost, years in the dark; Saint of wisdom, rightful your reason, Show a glance, from you I need a spark. Lift the arm, and reach up to my wound, Feel my chest, listen up to the beat; Say the prayer, and plead to the sound, Drop them softly, moan up to the heat. Enlighten my sight with your passion, Hand me a bough from your sacred tree; Show me the way to your confession, Nourish my will, and set my soul free. Take me high, and quiver through the heights, Let me know, when we reach up the stars; Swirl up the breeze, and whirl out the nights, Revive the wounds, and scratch up the scars. Take me blind, and lead me through the graves, Bare of the feet, I will chase your path; Stumble to the stones, and feel the waves, Seeking my doom, thunder of my wrath. When we pass by the hills of queen death, Let me spit a mark on her black throne; When I succumb and lack for a breath, Let me write a word on my gravestone. Anger of the days, verses of my book, Traces of the years, page after page; Curse of the fate, never off the hook, End of the time, a spell on my age. El-Bechihi
Lexicon: Berber: Native people of North Africa (My tribe). Confession: One of Augustino famous works. Hippone: Today Annaba on the East Algerian coast (100 Km North of Souk-Ahras). Madaure: Today M'daourouch a small city at few Km from Souk-Ahras. Thagaste: Today Souk-Ahras (my native town).
15/08/2005 THERESA
A woman from the stars, in my heart she stroke, A smile of a Mother, with her eyes she spoke; The face glowing and pure, from heaven she fed, The blue scarf she wore, the ears and the head. My heart full of joy, the charm of a smile, Swept of my feet, by her rested a while; Picture brightened the wall, the look and the face, Benches kneeled in rows, candles filled the place.
  
Theresa the name, Jesus master and guide, In land of the poor, candle lifted the pride; Praying in the dusk, the tears of an Angel, Sinner and the lost, the heart of a marvel. From oil and bread, the food of a humble, Cement and earth, her bed and the temple; Water in her bucket, thirsty and the ill, The age and the grays, never leaned her will .
Whisper in my ears, the voice of a song, Mother to a son, not seen for a long; Where have you been, what fate you belong, Where did you go, what was it so wrong.
Life was of the rough, evil I had to fight, Bitter and the sour, day fearing my night; Your holy blessings, wish in my desire, Eyes of a mother, I love to admire. Heart saying the prayers, tears will do the rest, Motherly my wishes, always from the best; Candle melting the drops, your pain to ashes dive, My son of all the toughs, shall bloom toping the thrive.
El-Bechihi
Theresa de Lisieux, known as For more information on my Theresa plerase visit one of these pages. http://bibliotheque.editionsducerf.fr/par%20page/2653/TM.htm# http://www.catholic-forum.com/saints/saintt02.htm To read the english translation of her poems please do visit this page http://www.ccel.org/ccel/therese/poems.titlepage.html
06/08/2005 THE ROCK Resting in a place, bottom yawning the clay, A rock in my land, in a corner to stay; In the shade of an oak, standing erect and prime, The rock of every year, the friend of all the time. Days come and go, years swallow the years, Storms roar and growl, dropping wrath and tears; The skies darken and shine, pouring snow and rain, The rock of every year, proud no hum of pain. Birds laid the gifts, horses rubbed the skulls, Dogs marked the signs, the cows dated the bulls; Lizards chased the sun, wolves sprayed the leak, The rock of every year, humble no sign of tweak. Father amid his people, to fight he swore the will, His father among his guests, sitting silent and still; His mother calling the goats, flocked before the ride, The rock of every year, the prized among the pride. The sun shining above, the heart feeling the heat, A breeze shaking the oak, her head standing the beat; Grass scratching the bottom, ants hollowed the caves, The rock of every year, napping feeling the waves. Hands of my ancestor, the marks carved the top, A game of smart and style, your dog must do the hop; The kids playing around, laughter shaking the ground, The rock of every year, smiled loving the sound. My hands on your memorial, a kiss on each face, For you beloved father, pilgrim seeking your trace; Sitting top of my temple, meadow yellow and bright, The rock of every year, the mother of my delight.
El-Bechihi
The Rock is a very distinct big stone at the south east side of FREHA the meadow in my native land. It is famous by the game of KHERBGA (chess like game), which was carved on the top of it by one of my ancestors. It is a living memorial of the spirit of all my family members. My beloved father used to sit on the top of it playing with his little baby I once was.
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To you my Grandmother, my true only Mother; please forgive me for not being of your last moments.
To the Girl that marveled me with her words...
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