Sunday, March 20, 2011

A tug at the heartstrings.

Morrocco, I don't understand your language but you speak to me.
The mosaics of your culture
The colours of your words
The handcraft of your little shops
The courtyards and your houses
The smiles in your people
The smells of your orange trees
The green of your hills
And the red of your earth
Your narrow streets
Your cooking pots
And flavoured meals
beaming with your conical hats
Your large tea pots steaming of delicious sweet mint
Your shadows grow on me.
Your slow rythm of life,
and your simplicity
craddle me.
Who knew I would fall for you
You, busy and yet lazy?

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