Meghzouchene's poetry

The caramel of love



Shyness enshrouds enamourness
like toffee on a delicious cake,
ready to melt down
as love ducks in pahoehoe,
triggering sweat of pain.
In case heart turns cold
and frames igloos, then
sweet moments freeze.
My dear, I'm not timorous
of falling for you;
all I'm afraid of is,
to be shaken off without any
consideration of throbbing
my inner feelings.
I do care for keeping
my person unhurt; one-sided
love I don't need to bring up
for at last turning to ashes

The plow of love


I breathe the love
you blew in my heart.
Life without you
means utter suffocation
and sheer bereavement.
I scent the jasmines,
daffodils and lilies,
you used to garden.
Vases devoid of you,
turn into old urns.
I touch my flesh,
you often stroked,
to rejuvenate it all.
I still hear you,
conversing ecstatically
with me by the lab.
I see you once more
prompt to pre-empt
my lusted after heart.
I so miss you.


Three broken glasses

In our forefathers' land,
we disintegrated;
and in a foreign land,
we coalesced.

In our forefathers’ air,
we suffocated;
and in a foreign air,
we were reanimated.

In our forefathers’ huts,
we feuded;
and in a foreign house,
we reconciled.

In our forefathers’ tongue,
we stuttered;
and in a foreign tongue,
we versified.

In our forefathers’ spring,
we grieved;
and in a foreign spring,
we blossomed.

In our forefathers’ winter,
we froze;
and in foreign winter,
we got warm.

In our forefathers’ wrinkles,
we hid;
and in foreign wrinkles,
we confided.

In our forefathers’ food,
we fastened;
and in foreign food,
we wolfed down.

In our forefathers’ drink,
we got thirsty,
and in a foreign drink,
we quenched our thirst.

In our forefathers’ pains,
we ironized;
and in foreign pains,
we ached.

In our forefathers’ memory,
we were cursed;
and in foreigners' memory,
we were appraised.

In our forefathers’ mistakes,
we washed hands;
and in foreigners' mistakes,
we sullied hands.



Belkace Meghzouchene