The living were born
The dead did die
The fear won't let
the sleeping dogs lie
when the shadow comes
creeping
through the town.

The pastors yawn,
the demons frown;
sometimes you're up
sometimes you're down,
but you can't listen
to what the devils say.

I've heard the kettle
whisper
when I came by to
kiss her
but I've never heard God
get comfortable with sin.

I think I'll try getting old
before I lay down to die.
No matter what,
when it ends
I won't let them lie,
no,
but when I lie,
the dead will mourn for me.

There's coffee in the fridge,
there's whisky in the ***,
so many things I did backwards,
like buying your nonsense in lot.

I've been sitting pretty
is it make-up, or is it wit? See...
I don't have to be pretty
to be loved by dumb luck.

When I go out to meet her
I'll be checking my dresser
Hat, shirt and dress, yes sir,
You'll be colored yeller,
but when I die,
it doesn't matter what they see.
Cuz when I lie,
the dead will mourn for me.

I'll be buried empty,
but the plants will have plenty,
of all my meals I'd rather leave behind.
I don't have money,
don't take that to make it sunny,
but I'll be cooking where I'm hard to find.

I've got oil to spare,
to lay your body bare,
and spend your love
to keep my engine running.

I'm devil may care,
I'm angel may stare,
and hope no one's lookin'
when I pass you saucy
love letters.

Arguments fine tuned,
we leave common sense marooned,
when we box pandora up
and let her free...
continually.

I've seen the moon go red
Like every word you said,
and I'd rather chase some ***
then get insurance,
because when I die,
no,
when I lie,
yes,
when I lay down,
the dead will mourn for me.

As the shape all sun
tore up the curtain
of blood and ululation,
everything in Tunisia,
as stricken by a wand,
came to a standstill,
and slipped away
from the senses -
Even rivers stopped.

Medjerda* froze
halfway
through the descent
to his destination,
as he realized
he’d been making a fatal error:
pouring forth all his passion
into the ocean.

So he stopped,
retracted his course,
re-collected himself,
and started flowing backward,
toward
the source
in the Atlas
that had bidden him
farewell.

In his spear head
there was a design:
start a new chaos
in the valley,
in which there would be
a sweet-water lake
and sailors drunk
with sunbeams, sweat
and pleasure.
Butterflies would flutter
around the scent of mint
and bluegreen rosemary.
Sweet Moon to Sweet Lake
would come, unannounced,
In the rays of the nightlight
of the fluttering night
to watch her self
shoot
the scene
of representation.

The river, now swimming
in his own water,  
carried the sky on his shoulder,
while an ant and a grasshopper,
holding a basket together,
watched the new scene.

As the figure all sun appeared ,
reason melted;
imagination
her hazel eyes opened.

*Medjerda is the most important river in Tunisia. Length, 460 km; basin area, 22,000 sq km. It flows out of the Atlas mountains into the Gulf of Tunis.
© LazharBouazzi, June 16, 2016