A City That Lost its Shadow 

Khadija Ikan  

***

Remnants of air

I came from these idrizn,[1]
Scattered on earth,
They are endowed with secrets.
I came from there!

Behold this landscape
where Anfa has tattooed
its Barghwatian Love.
A valley of wrinkles, this hill.
Remnants of nothingness.

Roots obliterated by time.
And time yearning for
A companion buried on earth.
Like a shadow,
He is rooted.
The remnants of a Life
This shadow,
the remnants of a voice
under a city.

Behold and tell me!
Would time obliterate
A love tattooed on the wind, 
Or would it silence
The voice/ sound of the wind in the forest?
Or would it suck out the springs?
Would it remove that heap of wrinkles
From that high hill?

That who sleeps under cement,
Forgotten,
He visited my dreams.
A man standing on a rock,
A woman knitting her lqtib,[2]
A kid that resembles my soul.
The remaining of a high hill.

I came from these monuments,
Scattered on earth,
They are endowed with secrets.
 I came from there!

*** 

The Barghwati[3] Messenger

A sea on my wall
Blue like your eyes,
Planted in a garden. 

My eyes are hanging to a bunch of grapes
Suspended against my wall.

Eyes locked,
Now they are planted
In a Chawian garden.
Like Meryam;
In your belly
This Barghwati Messenger.  

*** 

Awakening

A cloak is hanging,
Covered by the dust of Twelve centuries
While I am hanging to a scattered soul
Between the past and the present,
I do not want those stars (promises??) under that cloak,
I would rather go
Get drank
At a Barghwatian bar.

*** 

Masks

My past
It is this pastureland
These Tizrrarin[4]
These Amazigh lands,
All these faces.
The masks worn by our streets,
They are falling
In front of these pure moments.
Between the past and the present,
I recalled that
History repeats itself.

*** 

The White House

All names are distorted
Across the shore of times.
A river of centuries,
Both the cruel and the kind.
In the middle of the grass
Before the Portuguese invasion,
There was a White House
In the Chawian Valley.
The wrinkles carved by time
Are not enough
For my Barghwatian kiss
Flowing from Bouskoura to the ocean!  

Here…
In the Chawian Valley,
There used to be
a white house
In the middle of the grass. 

*** 

An Estranged Nation (Weaned People)

In front of the square,
I sat
Holding my grandmother’s yellow headscarf.
I am knitting for that chaotic emptiness
of O.N.U square
A flag embroidered with the colors
of my grandmother’s headscarf.
As for me,
I am here forever.
My feet are firm
On the land of a weaned nation
For how can one unite a nation,
That is not united with its mother tongue.  

*** 

Reflections

When the glory of my land
Is reflected on water,
It illuminates my face…
It will destroy all ghosts
Even my thoughts
It will be scattered,
When it lights…
All stereotypes will be eradicated
A new image will be created,
I will carve it in Tomorrow. 

*** 

Libika

I can see Libika
Ancient scripts,
They said they were burnt,
Is it possible to burn a civilization!
I can see them in the valleys,
I see Likiba
Not anywhere,
Not in the fire,
Not in the museums,
Just here,
Me and the land.

*** 

Dawn

Only the forest
knows our ufur.[5]
He is singing with her
Under the moon,
Under the gaze of our great grandfathers.
This river
Under Sidi Blyut
Reneged on me a secret,
Which I have hidden
Until I meet you, Our King, Bani.
When you offer me a cluster of grapes
That I squeeze on those fields of Tamsna[6]
Covered by pale sand
Near the ocean.
The walls of the city are scratching the moon,
The moon glows
On the legacy buried on this soil
Where your gaze followed the dawn!

*** 

Displaced

I came across something
To be a bird… or an azyam[7]!
Not these rights,
Under an aging sky
On the sidewalk of waiting.
I came across something
To be your grandson
To drink from your fountain
To not be lost between identities
Like a bastard.

*** 

The Ocean’s Mist

I smell the fresh sea air at titt n wuccan[8]
Me and the yellow headscarf of my grandmother
He approached me
With that lean and hungry look.
Miserable creature!!
I am the Barghwatian dizzle,
No one can devour it!

*** 

My lover;
He has a medal
That braid on his right side,
Spreading from the ocean
To the desert.
My lover,
He sings for me
From under the cement
Under my feet.
He handed me
His braids
And then,
I pulled him. 

*** 

Light rain

Keep moving
Dear swirling wind,
I will keep pouring.

This is my light rain
It carries Souss’s spring
I pour it on the footsteps of cities.

Keep Moving
Dear swirling wind,
I will keep pouring
On the heart of a melting iron
And my heart that is filled
With the laws of love.
I will pour my rain
on land
So it can resemble me!

*** 

Traces 

My rain,
He hasn’t woken up yet
Only the ocean
Follows its dew!

*** 

Cities of cement 

I came back from Bouskoura
A brimful tree,
A planted cloud,
Never seen by the garden of the League of Arab States.
If only they could look in the mirror!
My Barghwatian walls
Painted with Tifinagh Alphabets
A reflection of a countenance sleeping under the cement
Crawling on the floor!
I know you;
We meet in a certain life,
We missed each other in a certain century?
I do not have time for all this madness,
All those suspicions.
Your mouth,
It gave birth to me
So now I resemble you!

Translated by Zahra Benlahoussine

Footnotes:

[1] Monuments.

[2] Traditional Amazigh veil.

[3]

[4] Folk songs in Tamazight.

[5] Secret.

[6] The capital of Barghwata dynasity.

[7] Dolphine.

[8] Ain Diab.