The Warmth


What would seem foreign at first becomes familiar, with time.
North Africa becomes home to French citizens who want their fun
Algeria becomes romance, tales of wonder, narrating in rhyme
The exclusive pleasures of the warmth lying there in the sun.

Speaking English, residing at Havard and for years to come
In a room with a desk and a chair for an Algerian Frenchman.
What may seem like wholly undeserved privileges to some,
Are distracting substitutes for the warmth of a loving hug.

The poet imagines a modern city suddenly infested by plague.
The horror emerges reluctantly, resisted by the disbelief
As if he had really lived in his own memory, although vague,
Every sentence draining away the warmth, drip by drip.

His worldly fixations underline the tale of the stranger
Where the would be assassin seems like a typical colonist
Who might live next door. To whom is he a source of danger
When he cites the warmth of the moment as the only pretext?

From time immemorial as Greece melted into the Arab presence,
The Sahara some call The Garden of Allah poses a mystery.
It is imbued with something greater than just its essence
Where atoms heat the air so that the warmth makes a mirage.

Whether intended or a side effect, the visions impress
A big question mark over seeing, sanity and reality itself.
In the end, the holidaymaker goes home in the same dress
As she came, leaving the warmth to the photo on the shelf.



Bevagna, 22 May 2017