A Small Bay

In the Middle of a Bay
Deserted by waters
Boats and ships stand still
On a muddy bottom
Blue and white ships
With cracking paint,
Decaying wood and,
Parting boards
While foodless seagulls
Cry in the horizon and
The air smells of fish.
Smells that creep under your skin
And carry scents of shore and cords.
Smells of ships that had fed time
Until it turned into water
Until fishermen became
Gods emerging from water,
Branches and, beaks
From clay and air.

In the middle of a bay
Invaded by the tide
Water will indeed come back.

Hashem Shafiq
Newcastle, April 13, 2002

Translated into English by
Hafsa Bekri-Lamrani
Casablanca, Morocco