White Rose From the Atlas

Now Paris Is washing its eyes With August rain Paris is now A woman A Babylonian bride Her wedding Is set on Christmas I hair trills in Paris And emigrants cheering And applauding To welcome These eyes of marble This your day woman You will hug Another man A Parisian Black-feet Who does not respect The rain In my little house There are many essays And poems Some I do not feel I need Some are not mine They are still Standing up The way I left them This morning The fire place is silent Like a grand mother Who knows when she should talk Too many books In different languages Agitated Like me Even your journal As you left it It still keeping Its preferred place, Its blue color And the smell of your burned desires The first December snow Is falling in a rebellious motions, It is embracing the town’s big avenue And dancing with the last falling leaves Against its will This is not very important The town is not My town I am an emigrant too Time in my house Is yellowish It creates its own dunes Just to get lost This is bother my house’s door Before you left This town I draw a plan To settle and colonized this town I planed to build Another Paris A barbarian one So you can take me With your eyes of the Atlas Through its streets of marble And to our Andalusia’s house Then we go And visit mosques Churches And temples To wash our soul With the town’s walls And gates Now, And after you left I burned all the plans It remain just the town saltiness And the smell of your burned desires.