I will build myself a house of stones
picked among the finest of the Adrar.
It will be the color of spice:
cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, saffron.
A house like those made by nomads;
built thinking of now,
with no thought for tomorrow,
or permanence.
It will have sharp and uneven edges,
and cracks between the stones
letting in rays of light mixed with dust
in the afternoon heat,
cool air in the evenings
and the very rare morning mist.
From time to time,
I will lean against the front door
and look into the horizon,
letting the wind caress my hair,
thinking of lost moments,
with bare feet dug into the sand,
counting stars against the burning sky.
And when I'm gone,
because my heart can't resist the wind's call,
the house will remain
a playground for goats,
an occasional refuge for herders,
a familiar feature in the landscape.
Time will pass;
my footprints
vanish.
Only a mound of rocks will stand
where happiness
once found me.
Sonia Z.