Nestled in the Moroccan mountains, The scarlet, dusty terrainBlends with the evening sky. I hearMusic soaring, lifting hearts’ strings,And savoury meat sizzling on the fire.People are bustling through the streetsThe seasonal festival is in fullSwing. I stop at a street table,And take a handful of almonds.I stride past the blushing houses.The beauty of the trees—The splendour and elegance of theWhite flowers draw captive to the eyesOf even the smallest child…Kamal toddles furiously behind me,Tugging my khaki pants,Stretching his hands: “Sami, up!”I sigh and smirk, hoisting him on my shoulders:“One day,You’ll have to do things on your own,” I tease“I won’t always listen to your ‘please’.”I resume marching, as we make our way,To the stage where musicians had begun to play
Jadati* Nabila is in the middle of the crowded square,Belting proudly with the trumpet fanfareOf our national anthemI turn over Kamal, ignoring my grandmother’sProtests, and make a break toThe outskirts of town, to skip this whole ordeal—This so-called ‘fun’ Almond HarvestI dash past theUp and down the rolling hillsNot very much caring whereBut rather how far awayI run. I start to feel light, carefree—Bang! My body hits the ground.The pain is silentBut then, suddenly,Oh, how sharply the pain strikes,Pounding explosively on my headThe agony throughout my back,And shoulders is too much to bear.If I had looked where I was going I would have seenAnother individual racing in the oppositeDirection. The pain subsides, and I look up, dizzyThe young person is still standing
