Every time I hold the pen, I am drowned in this feeling.

My head is overwhelmed by a storm of words, lacking all meaning, all sense.

I try to write down any idea, but this senseless logic spinning inside is beyond my understanding.  

As if this brain was not my own, I feel lost.

I'm tired of straying aimlessly in my thoughts, so I abandon all to this overflowing emotion.

My hand is numb, my eyes blurred in this confusion, and my head slowly drained of all reason.

As if this body was not my own, I feel lost.

When the storm finally passes, I drop the pen carved in my hand.

My brain is worn out, empty. All I can see is a crumbled, blank, page eating me alive.

I am no longer my own.

I am lost.

When time outruns the last of your brothers, and the heart of a golden generation turns into stone. Your strained bones long to rest among your loved ones, but you're unable to answer their call.
There's worry lingering in your thoughts and straining your soul. You fear for stories too precious to leave behind, vulnerable to the ruthless fires of oblivion.
So you keep clinging tiredly to an uncertain future. Desperately, you wonder for a shelter, a sanctum to all the lessons that must endure.

Let go of these fears grandmother. Your history will live on.

Through emblems, talismans and charms carved in the blood of our nation, your beliefs will be embedded in the symbols of our ancestors. Your teachings will clear the path for understanding, and our bodies will carry on the knowledge you left us.
Through legends, tales and chants all forged from truth, your morals will resonate among frozen hearts. Your hopes will breathe life into our dying spirits, and the wisdom of our ancestry will guide our nation for eternities.

Go in peace grandmother. Your wishes will live on.

As your never-fading love warms us, harmony and peace will unite us again, and we will reach together to the glory you once saught.
As your never-dying spirit inspires us, bravery and confidence will guide our conquests, and our triumphs await in the lands you dreamt of exploring.
And as the blessings of your ancestors protect us, we'll pass on the knowledge to our children, and enlighten the path you've once shown us.

So rest assured grandmother. Our culture will live on.

I
The rain falling now
In Carthage -
A nectar
Of rainness -
Is like the grains
Of couscous
Made the day of
Celebration.
II
In Carthage now
The scent of rain
Is like the sound of
Pain
Memory has lost
To imagination.

© LazharBouazzi