M. L.

For some today the worry and the work
go on, the weariness, and then for some the wine.
For some the wonder of it all perhaps.
But not for you. For some today
there will be no tomorrow. For you
there’s no today. In the tatty sun-split
Spanish streets behind the Institute
the anger and the laughter and the tears
build up once more. Soon they’ll fade with evening.
Lalla Yacout in the twilight:
Arabs throng and fight for space, a place
on the old French buses, hanging from doors and windows,
then are gone. Night falls. For most
the sun will rise again, but not for you.

[Written on the death of a friend when I lived in Casablanca, many years ago …]

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