Assia Djebar and I.

Going away would return me to myself. Far away, a foreigner at last - the fruits and the pulp of being foreign, a foreigner even to my memories and my future.  Vacant, nascent. To leave!

Assia Djebar, The Tongue's Blood does not Run Dry: Algerian Stories

(For Assia)

there is rain washing this

  chance of desert,  aroma

of oasis and pine.  there

is a winter white which in the

fugitive sunlight could be warning,

  could be

       warming, could

                     almost be the white

of yr blanched algiers

walls, and blue doorways

   adorned with a chain of bells

   and a fine yellow script

and white veils blowing along the

street, imperceptible patter of feet

over the ancient cobblestone -

       as if there were no one 
       inside, nothing but air
       and muted desire, as if 

there were never

a boat at the dock,

a light at the end

of the tunnel.

                   Image: Miriam Adelman (Street art, Montevideo)