Shandy shades of dust speckle the ground

And gallant tones of green

Dot the landscape

From which the scent of olives ooze,

Before mixing with the aromas of musk,

Distant Morocco

And the comical smell of buring tires.

At dusk,

I am driven by a blind taxi driver-

Judging by his driving-

Along a road

Which seemingly stretches through the sea

Whilst seagulls dive for food

Before the final setting of the sun.

That morning,

I had strolled along golden sands

And watched tides sweep over my feet,

I saw white robbed men

Close their eyes

And wrap themselves

In prayer and peace.

I saw the sun rise

And pour its rays

Over the tombs of those

Who had long since gained

Eternal rest.

A simple life witnessed,

With riches extending far beyond

The grasp of materialism…