MODERN MOROCCO
(45 Days On)
Waking up in a strange place each day
not knowing where you are or at first
at least. The brave woman standing by
while her husband is dying, or the priestly
stranger about in a foreign land, how same
or different are they? Need I really ask?
Everything left that wasn't stolen from
that place in the hills, do I have to ask
about that, or is that too gone?
-
In Morocco, 45 days on, Jesus Christ
I need to hold you once more. Let me
feel the young juice of your jowls, let
me take you to market with your
nice brown skin - making
pronouncements of your
love and your glory.
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