GOSPEL FOR THE LIVING ONES

We began building mom’s 

home the day the bombings 

began. First it was the smoke. 

Later it arrived the fire as

an unwanted citizen. Breakfast

has become your dust. We don’t

cry, we walk alone and together 

but we don’t cry. We wake up

under the plain light coughing

as if we were fishes stuck over

the sand. We hear you when you

call, saying “Hamas,” but we don’t

know you any well. God’s sake

can’t speak with those voices,

neither love. My story, my birth,

now even my death is made of

dust and rock. You want to 

feed us with “Hobsora” as if

that nutrition was not known

among us. If I could use “I”

instead of being always “We,”

I would send my white dove 

to our children 

wandering in the streets

of The Land, but we are more

than a common “I.” Our cosmos

is not made of war. We used to

dream with the oasis and building

mom’s home. Now, while we wait

to set the first brick again,

I could only send my white dove

to our little friends in Gaza.

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Mehmet Amazigh

He was born in 1986 in the fishing town of Essaouira (also known as Mogador), in the Moroccan southwest. Most of his life he has worked in the local fishing industry of Essaouira. After finishing his Lycée studies, he emigrated to France and Spain where he worked in the agricultural sector for a few years before returning to his homeland. During his free time, besides walking through the old city (Medina) of Essaouira, he writes poetry and teaches some English and geography to the local children. Up until this point of his life, he has only shared his poetry orally amongst his working peers: fishermen and children.

Latest posts by Mehmet Amazigh (see all)

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