In the old communist’s den





Hosni Mouelhi




(In memory of Rzouga)

There he sat, the sick old communist,

Basking in the warm and scentless smell

That filled every corner of his flat.

Sitting on his sofa with folded legs,

His thoughts were scattered amid the    unstapled                     pages

Of   a    photocopied     manual           of         theatrical                      techniques.

There he sat with his round glasses

Hanging dangerously from his nose,

Like the sword of Damocles from its horsehair.

It reminded his visitors

That age and

Misfortune

are never

Too

Far.

The tender smell of coffee invaded the room,

Warm and delicious like a soft winter slumber.

It slowly danced to the scratchy sound of the aging radio

Playing an old French tune with roaring r’s,

With roaring R’s, R’s… R’s.

And outside !

The stout wind of El Kef riding a cloudy clime

Waltzing with the age-old rhyme

And shaking from time to time the windows and the French door

Was trying to break into the room and take away

The old communist and his unstapled book his dusty scars

                              And his long-dead dReam

© Adriana Vidano










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