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Le Dr Fouad Bouchareb est un médecin marocain ayant exercé pendant 35 ans dans le domaine de la santé publique. Originaire de Sefrou, il a travaillé dans plusieurs régions du Maroc, notamment Safi et Souss-Massa-Draa. Il est connu pour ses récits touchants sur ses expériences médicales, ses relations avec ses patients et les défis auxquels il a été confronté en tant que professionnel de la santé.
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​The Ultimate Dance 💃 ​ 3616

Boucharfou, 2 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.6 min read.
​The Ultimate Dance 💃 ​He whispers to me during our waltz Words and beautiful phrases He holds me tight in his arms And takes me into extraordinary dreams ​And the tears from my eyes... As if by magic, illuminate earth and sky ​He carries me to all corners of the dance floor In this sweet evening between music and choristers ​And I, like a child in his hands Like a feather in a trance to the rhythm of the refrains ​He offers me the stars and the moon and his hand He hums hymns for better tomorrows ​He offers me the sun He offers me summer and its warmth He promises me years of happiness ​He tells me that I am unique And that I am worth more than all the stars and Sputniks That I am a treasure The best picture on board ​His words intoxicate me To the point of making me lose the rhythm of my steps Words of love that I don't know ​Which restore my implacable femininity He builds me a sandcastle That I inhabit for a few unforgettable seconds ​Then I return... I return to my table Just with memorable words ​Dr Bouchareb Fouad All rights reserved November the 6th, 2025

Dreams 4869

Boucharfou, 2 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.6 min read.
Dreams Every morning when I wake up I remember my dream I think I saw it in my dreams I'm caught in a fear that eats away at me And my heart is beating with fear and desire. Unfortunately, the unfolding of my dreams is unremarkable A collection of illogical events All my memories with her fade like autumn leaves who yield to the caresses of the breeze And they ended up washing up on the ground wet with my tears Witnesses of my misfortunes I sailed against the winds and tides Looking at the horizon In search of a country that would inhabit me But in vain A kind of forward flight It doesn't bode well What memories born in pain I apprehended happiness I hoped with glow I waited patiently But it's been a long wait Very long Feeling the storm approaching I hung on the mast And then I landed at the first port of oblivion I fell into alcohol and its alchemy And suddenly my dreams resurfaced I was shaking and not standing there anymore And nightmares haunt my targeted nights And replaced my shattered dreams Dr Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved October 24, 2025

He thinks 5071

Boucharfou, 2 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.6 min read.
He thinks.... He thinks that in his nailed hands I'm nothing but a toy. I don’t think I’ll go back to him. Today, everything has changed — As if nothing had ever happened. And with the innocence of angels from the skies in the look in his eyes, He tells me: I am the keeper of this place, And that I am his one true love. He brought me flowers. How could I not accept them? And all the naivety of youth I found again in his gentle smile. I no longer remember... the fire in your eyes. How did I find myself in his arms? I laid my head on his chest, proud, Like a child returned to their father or mother. Even my long-abandoned dresses danced at his feet, all of them. I forgave him… and asked how he had been. And I cried for hours under his armpit. And without thinking, I gave him my hand, So it could sleep like a bird in his. And I forgot all my hatred in a fraction of a second. Who said I held a grudge against him? How many times did I say I’d never return? And yet I came back. My return is wonderful. To my first love. Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved Toulouse, May 29, 2025

The judge of love 4877

Boucharfou, 2 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.3 min read.
Oh you judge of love Be merciful to me Don't condemn me until you've listened to me I am a victim as always I swear it out loud She's the one who makes me sing And play tricks on me As before and always And pretends to be up Mr. Judge Believe Me And before you say and to judge me with your law Remember, yes remember That you too were mistreated By your lover many times And you felt what I feel Despite your good faith So be merciful to me And do me justice for once Otherwise in your law I will lose my faith I was what you are, you'll be what I am Dr Bouchareb Fouad June 4, 2024 All rights reserved

Palace of the Kasbah 5580

Boucharfou, 2 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.6 min read.
Malaga, Palace of the Kasbah Each time I wander there, a strange phenomenon occurs it seems I can hear the murmur of another age, an extraordinary idyll, from a past not so distant, suddenly extinguished, leaving a feeling of the unfinished, of an era that left its mark, of which Arabs and Moors still speak, and nearly every spirit recalls those of noble souls and proud Iberian Spaniards. In the gardens, I seem to hear melodious songs, of lovers and beloveds sharing cups of wine, pure juice of the vine, and mugs of beer, behind stone walls as if it were yesterday sole witnesses of a past they hold dear, hidden from the envious eyes of pawns, to the great dismay of spies and the curious. Suddenly rises the voice of a singer, sweet and marvelous, healing the wounds of every broken heart that no physician, however wise, had ever managed to cure. O Andalusia, land of a glorious past, of wondrous tales and shining episodes! The Palace of the Kasbah still stands proud, rising high through time, faithful to its noble heritage, awaiting the resurrection of its Caliph and his courtiers. Dr. Fouad Bouchareb The Palace of the Kasbah Malaga, September 16, 2022 All rights reserved

Love! 6005

Boucharfou, 2 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.5 min read.
Love! (Inspired by Jalal Eddine Rumi) Love is destiny. We hardly ever choose the moment to love; It happens one evening… or one morning. It comes by pure chance, Leaving you confused and dazed. The day you expect it the least, You never saw it coming from afar. It strikes in the blink of an eye, Without an appointment, It makes you gentle, It makes you lose your reason. It makes you flee your home. Like fire, it burns with passion. Love at first sight is common— Each will have their share, their portion. Without logic… Yet it’s beautiful, despite all we endure. It’s a pure feeling, When it is sincere. It’s magic, It’s fantastic. Despite its pains and sorrows, Its sleepless nights until dawn, It is life’s elixir, Ecstasy without end. It comes to you as if by magic, Lifting you away from everything, Besieging you from everywhere, Taking over your soul… And driving you mad, sooner or later! Dr. Fouad Bouchareb El Médano / Tenerife August 24, 2025 All rights reserved

The Neighbor of the Valley 5718

Boucharfou, 2 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.8 min read.
The Neighbor of the Valley (Inspired by the song of Fairouz — “Ya Jarat al-Wadi”) O neighbor of the valley, O joy, O turmoil of my soul, Your memories and dreams haunt me still, Calling me, claiming my whole. In my dreams as in my waking mind, Your love remains, ever near; And the memories softly resound, Echoes of a past still clear. I passed again by the gardens, So green, so full of life — There where I once met you, Upon that sunlit hill. Faces and eyes smiled upon me, And in their breath I sensed your scent. My weary soul revived at once, She who had mourned her fate Since the day you went. Never before had I known The sweetness of a lover’s embrace, Until the day I gently held you close — You, the red-haired grace, Whose supple form bent softly in my hands, Like a slender branch swayed by the breeze, And whose cheeks, out of modesty, Blushed with tender unease. The language of words fell silent then, Yielding to the speech of eyes; Mine spoke to yours With the passion love implies. The stars and the heavens, our only allies, Bore witness to us before the skies. And when night came, I held you again, Caressed and kissed you Until the breaking of dawn — Before we drifted apart, forlorn. Since that day, there has been no yesterday, No tomorrow, no day after, No time thereafter. The flow of time has ceased forever, And was condensed into that one day — The day I basked in all your favor. Dr Fouad Bouchareb Rabat, October 11, 2025 All rights reserved

The One Tormented by Love 4842

Boucharfou, 2 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.6 min read.
The One Tormented by Love He whom love is nothing but torment and cries, Whom sleep abandons and flees, Whose endless tears touch all who see him suffer. His wounded and tortured heart knows no respite, And his bruised eyelids remain open forever. The leaves tremble beneath his sighs, And the stone melts under the weight of his groans. He speaks to the stars, Telling them of his misfortunes, His cries and his sorrows… In vain. He ends up tiring them, They slip away and abandon him, Leaving him motionless and weary, Yet awake, gazing beyond. Yet every tearful admirer Would dream that her hands could brush him, Touch him, Behold him, And love him. His eyes denied the blood he shed; Would his face deny his pain as well? When his witnesses of love left him without honor, He displayed his cheek so that it could bear witness in their place. Between her and him, love is a solid bond, Impossible to break or tarnish. Why then so many reproaches That open to him the door of oblivion, Only to slam it forever in his face? Dr. Fouad Bouchareb Inspired by the song of Mohammed Abdelouhab "مضناك جفاه مرقده" All rights reserved – October 10, 2025 https://youtu.be/-GHCmtjiygw?si=Qpt_iVR9hWrdSqK8

An Illusory Return 4909

Boucharfou, 3 mon.
An Illusory Return The morning breeze foretells the return of my beloved, After leaving me for so many years. If she truly comes, it will be at noon At least, that’s what she told me. The morning breeze foretells the return of my beloved, After leaving me for so many years. Could it be a premonition? Will she really come back to me? Or is it a pious wish, A dream of a time long gone and faded? Yet everything seems to foretell her return On this break of day: A blue sky, bright and clear, A sun rising early, strangely so, Majestic unusually radiant. The moon takes its leave discreetly and all the better for it. The morning breeze foretells the return of my beloved, After leaving me for so many years. I tremble and waver in my corner like a child, I cry out in enchantment, I can no longer keep still I lose all sense. A swallow lands upon my balcony, As if to show me its sympathy. The morning breeze foretells the return of my beloved, After leaving me for so many years. Time stops it feels like eternity. The ticking of my watch falters, losing its rhythm, The hands seem frozen, stretched apart. I hold my breath, I can hardly breathe, I’m suffocating, Sweat pouring from every pore, My head spinning, my sight blurred. The morning breeze foretells the return of my beloved, After leaving me for so many years. Suddenly, the morning breeze ceases. I sense that she is not yet ready. The sun vanishes like a sorcerer, Hiding behind the clouds. The moon peeks through now and then, As if to mock his retreat. The ticking of my watch resumes its old rhythm, The clock hands blend together enchantingly. I catch my breath again, Regain my composure, Put my jacket back on, Recover my reason, And stop asking questions. I am convinced she will not return today She has not kept her word, as always. I shall wait for another breeze, On another morning, That will once again announce her return. Until then I’ll go out for a walk. Dr. Fouad Bouchareb Rabat, October 26, 2022 All rights reserved.

He thinks.... 4927

Boucharfou, 3 mon.
- Society - Lifestyle - Poetry -
0.6 min read.
He thinks.... He thinks that in his nailed hands I'm nothing but a toy. I don’t think I’ll go back to him. Today, everything has changed As if nothing had ever happened. And with the innocence of angels from the skies in the look in his eyes, He tells me: I am the keeper of this place, And that I am his one true love. He brought me flowers. How could I not accept them? And all the naivety of youth I found again in his gentle smile. I no longer remember... the fire in your eyes. How did I find myself in his arms? I laid my head on his chest, proud, Like a child returned to their father or mother. Even my long-abandoned dresses danced at his feet, all of them. I forgave him… and asked how he had been. And I cried for hours under his armpit. And without thinking, I gave him my hand, So it could sleep like a bird in his. And I forgot all my hatred in a fraction of a second. Who said I held a grudge against him? How many times did I say I’d never return? And yet I came back. My return is wonderful. To my first love. Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved Toulouse, May 29, 2025

The Parental Home 4868

Boucharfou, 3 mon.
The Parental Home My parents’ house is permanently closed. The doorbell remains curiously silent. There is no longer Mom to welcome me with open arms and her wonderfully legendary smile. There is no longer Dad to tell me about his many travels, to share his famous jokes and give me advice about my job and career. There are no more magical smells coming from Mom’s kitchen, making my mouth water in anticipation of a good feast and delicious dishes of which only she knew the secret. My parents were so proud to see me become a doctor. They had no idea that once they became ill, I would be the one watching over them and their unfortunate fate! Since their passing, the peaceful atmosphere that reigned in our home is gone. There is no more joy of living. And, so to speak, even the hands of the wall clock have stopped moving. And the swing has ceased its endless back and forth. No more tick-tock, no random music. There are no more heated debates between my brothers and sisters, debates that only Dad had the art of settling with wisdom, favoring no one. He taught us how to discern things, to compose poetry, verses, and prose. He amazed his audience with his funny stories. Now, there are no more guests in the house. A divine silence reigns, like a sacred communion. Time first suddenly stopped on October 3rd, 1996. It froze forever on December 5th, 2018. From now on, I am left only with prayers, that their souls may rest in peace. Dr. Bouchareb Fouad Agadir, August 21st, 2022 All rights reserved

My Street 4604

Boucharfou, 3 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.2 min read.
My Street It belongs to me It’s part of my daily life It’s a kind of identity and bond I love the name of my street, and that’s fine It wasn’t named for nothing My street is called Hablmlouk And it’s not just any name Yes, it’s called Cherry Street 🍒 It’s beautiful and exquisite It reminds me every moment of Sefrou My hometown With ancestral roots It enchants me from all sides And for me, above all That’s enough It’s better that way Dr. Bouchareb Fouad May 18, 2020

Love 4569

Boucharfou, 3 mon.
Love! Love is a destiny We hardly choose the moment to love It happens one evening or one morning It happens by pure chance It leaves you confused and haggard One day when you least expect it You didn't see it coming from afar It happens in the blink of an eye... Without an appointment... It makes you soft... It makes you lose your mind... It makes you run away from home Like fire, it burns you with passion Love at first sight is legion You'll get your share, your ration Without logic... But it's beautiful despite everything we endure It's a pure feeling When it's sincere It's magical It's fantastic Despite its pains and sorrows, its sleepless nights Until morning It's the elixir of life It's endless ecstasy... It happens to you by magic... Content in loving takes you away from everything... It besieges you from everywhere! It takes over! It will drive you crazy sooner or later!!! Dr. Fouad Bouchareb El Medano / Tenerife August 24, 2025 Inspired by a text by Jalal Eddine Erroumi Arabic and Arabic All rights reserved

My Generation 4711

Boucharfou, 3 mon.
- Society - Philosophy - Romance -
1.3 min read.
I come from a generation that never knew electronic tablets. Our tablets were wooden boards, where we copied verses from the Quran, learned them by heart, and recited them before the fqih. A single mistake meant the sting of a stick, followed by the laughter of classmates. We never begged our parents for toys. We built them ourselves—rolling bicycle rims with a stick for handlebars, imitating the roar of engines with our mouths, or crafting skateboards from wood and ball bearings. Our games were simple but endless: hide-and-seek, marbles, spinning tops. We did not need private lessons. Our teachers were masters of their craft, teaching with passion and devotion. We discovered poetry, crossword puzzles, and the joy of words at an early age. Respect for elders was a rule, and care for the younger ones a duty. Holidays were not for travel but for small jobs that earned us coins to buy books—Camus, Hugo, Balzac, and others that today’s youth rarely open. We lived fully in the real world, untouched by the virtual. Our joys were simple: an old movie at the cinema, a homemade sandwich of tomatoes and peppers, afternoons at the public pool, or slipping into a football match just before the final whistle. One black-and-white TV channel was enough, and a transistor radio was a treasure. We kissed our parents’ hands, respected teachers and policemen, shared our scholarship money with siblings, and saved schoolbags and textbooks for years. We listened to our grandmothers’ tales in the dark, our imaginations weaving monsters, heroes, and enchanted princesses. We knew the Solex, the 2CV, the Dauphine, the R8. We wrote letters and waited for the postman as if he were a hero. Pocket money came only at Eid, and our first driver’s license only after our first paycheck. We grew up running errands, carrying bread to the oven, water from the fountain, groceries on credit in the neighborhood shop. We learned values the hard way—through discipline, slaps, and the watchful eyes of parents, neighbors, and teachers. Elders were always right. We listened more than we spoke. That is why my generation is so different from today’s. We are often misunderstood, dismissed as outdated—even by our own children. Yet I cannot help but feel that those who never lived what we did have truly missed something. Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved

The Alleys of Marrakech 4521

Boucharfou, 3 mon.
The Alleys of Marrakech Whether on foot or by carriage They are magnificent, the alleys of Marrakech. What a pleasure to wander through these shaded paths, Changing my route each time I pass. I mingle with the crowd, The atmosphere is lively, the spirit proud. The Marrakchis are funny, always cool, Full of charm, they follow no rule. The Spice Square feels like a spell, From the terraces above, the view is swell. It leaves romantics lost in dreams, Where everything is more than it seems. Herbalists sell their fragrant spices, Pets abound, with no disguises. Once at Jemaa el-Fna, everything bursts in color, Scents rising everywhere, one after the other. Different dishes with countless flavors Are served here, to everyone’s favors. A true delight, A magical sight, A festival of culinary art, From a millennial cuisine with heart. The snakes taunt the curious who stare, Cobras bare their fangs to the air. Only the flute’s enchanted sound Can soothe their ardor as it floats around, Amusing eyes that watch with glee— The charmers’ dance, their mystery. Mischievous monkeys, bold and sly, Beg for peanuts or coins to buy. They leap, they spin, they clown around, Acrobats playing for the crowd. Fruit juices please the wandering souls, But as for me—I love the snails. The tooth-pullers draw in the reckless, With makeshift pliers, their work is merciless. Molars and canines, pulled without care, No anesthesia, just cries in the air. A pitiful trade, For those betrayed They’ll return again someday, Hoping dentures will ease the pain away. The café terraces all around Are filled with life, night and day bound. Different melodies blend and collide, In the square, a noisy tide. The clamor echoes, wild and strange, A soundscape that never seems to change. And when I head back, my mind still rings, With the echoes that this city brings. I know tomorrow I’ll return again, On foot or by carriage, it’s all the same. To these mythical places, where magic flows, Marrakech, your charm forever grows. Dr. Bouchareb Fouad Marrakech, March 17, 2023 All rights reserved

Age Is Just a Number 4670

Boucharfou, 3 mon.
Age is nothing but a number, Just the count of candles burning bright. On this fourth day of December, Sixty-eight flames light up my life. They melt away like gentle magic, Their wax flowing quietly down the candlesticks. Shy as maidens, they reveal themselves, Casting soft shadows Across the four walls of my room— Choreographing the loveliest of dances To the rhythm of a tender melody, As I sway with them in every direction. They awaken my journeys, The memories of the film of my life— Moments of joy once savored, And painful chapters overcome. Sixty-eight candles still shine upon me. But how many remain in the treasury of my years? One? Two? Ten, or twenty? Only God holds the answer. They say age is just a number. Yet the further we go along life’s path, The more we sense the day when all will cease. For me, only the present moment counts. Eternity is not mine to claim— Only God is eternal. What matters is guarding the wealth of health, And taming the burdens of illness. Sixty-eight candles brighten my world, And I choose to savor this moment Now, and only now. Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved Wednesday, December 04, 2024

Narcissism at its Extreme 4596

Boucharfou, 3 mon.
- Society - Lifestyle - Poetry -
0.5 min read.
How handsome he is, the man with the hat! A true Sagittarius, one of a kind, dignified and bold, fantastic, funny, extravagant, enigmatic, mysterious, curious, a dreamer, gentle and rebellious at the same time. For his family, he is an idol, for his colleagues, he is kind and witty, for his friends, a center of gravity. His days overflow with activity. He defies every law. A piercing gaze, commanding respect and regard. Sociable, and rather helpful. A sly smile never leaves indifferent those who cross his path. Some admire him, those who fight him end up retreating. His beauty can be seen from afar, though faded in certain corners. Beneath his bright hat he conceals secrets, mysteries, dreams, and desires. His charisma is real, a gift from heaven. His elegance envies no rival. A hidden strength, a star that sings in the heart of a lost night, a love song from the past that defies infinity— and it is better this way. Other stars, dazzled and amazed, in a serene sky, repeat their refrains while awaiting the break of dawn, the rising of the sun, and the warmth of its rays, one after the other. His kindness is legendary, his friendship exemplary, his reputation crosses borders and rivals his peers. Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved Agadir, July 17, 2025

The Barefoot Doctors 4750

Boucharfou, 3 mon.
- Society - Lifestyle - Health -
1.4 min read.
A French text left a lasting impression on me during my first year of secondary school at Lycée Moulay Ismail in Meknes. It was even decisive in my early choice to pursue medical studies. My French teacher, Mr. Rossetti, had assigned us to summarize an article entitled The Barefoot Doctors. I was deeply fascinated by the story of these Chinese practitioners, so named, who tirelessly traveled across their vast country to provide care to local populations. They braved harsh living conditions but fulfilled their mission with remarkable dedication and selflessness. They never complained, nor did they ever ask for money in return for their services. Their practice was one of proximity, modest in its means, but essential, effective, and invaluable for vulnerable communities—poor, yet dignified and grateful. Their working days were long, often exhausting, and the climate conditions harsh and extreme. After completing my medical studies, and following a brief experience in the private sector, I chose to embrace a career in public health. I too wanted to become one of those barefoot doctors. My decision had been made long before, and my dream finally came true on November 8, 1983, just after the commemoration of the glorious Green March. For me, it was a sign of destiny. During more than thirty-three years of service in public health, I had the privilege of working alongside many wonderful doctors who, like me, had chosen this path. Several were from my cohort at the Faculty of Medicine in Rabat—an exceptional class—others were older, and still others were younger colleagues who later joined our ranks. These physicians were the true barefoot doctors. They chose to serve Moroccans in remote areas where living, housing, and working conditions were extremely difficult. Salaries were meager. Yet greed and corruption had no place. The rare deviations were quickly identified and corrected by peers. Absenteeism was forbidden, and leave was short. Very soon, a relationship of trust and symbiosis developed between the doctors and the local populations. Many lived for years in these remote regions without ever considering leaving. Some of them took part in health campaigns and medical coverage operations without ever requesting compensation. Many died in total anonymity, fighting epidemics—the Covid-19 pandemic being a striking example. Others live today in modest, sometimes precarious retirement, but remain dignified and proud of the duty they fulfilled. It is precisely this kind of practitioners that our country lacks today. These are the doctors Morocco needs: the barefoot doctors. Dr. Fouad Bouchareb Former Senior Official, Ministry of Health Rabat, September 25, 2025 All rights reserved

Love 6733

Boucharfou, 4 mon.
Love! Love is a destiny We hardly choose the moment to love It happens one evening or one morning It happens by pure chance It leaves you confused and haggard One day when you least expect it You didn't see it coming from afar It happens in the blink of an eye... Without an appointment... It makes you soft... It makes you lose your mind... It makes you run away from home Like fire, it burns you with passion Love at first sight is legion You'll get your share, your ration Without logic... But it's beautiful despite everything we endure It's a pure feeling When it's sincere It's magical It's fantastic Despite its pains and sorrows, its sleepless nights Until morning It's the elixir of life It's endless ecstasy... It happens to you by magic... Content in loving takes you away from everything... It besieges you from everywhere! It takes over! It will drive you crazy sooner or later!!! Dr. Fouad Bouchareb El Medano / Tenerife August 24, 2025 Inspired by a text by Jalal Eddine Erroumi Arabic and Arabic All rights reserved

Being Doctors 13956

Boucharfou, 5 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.3 min read.
Being a doctor...in my generation! Medicine was an art practiced without flaw by a rare horde of people dedicated to their lauded work, who often remained stuck in the hospital to be that lifeline of oxygen and life. We remained clear-headed. We weren't greedy at all. Our medicine, whatever anyone said, and in all honesty, brought honor and happiness. It was our reason for being. Without it, we would be nothing but poor people, ultimately given over to doubt. Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved

Moving away from me 10778

Boucharfou, 6 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.5 min read.
By leaving me you exhausted me, and it's cruel Have mercy on me my beautiful You fucked up my passion But one day you'll find your sanity You cross me carelessly Me who loves you and that's all the difference They were beautiful our lovers' kisses If you don't remember them Ask your lips They are still in fever Our bonds were so strong So much so that when our blood squirts We don't know if it's yours or mine Ask the night why these stars despite their splendor And their glow Are not worth that of your smile O moon, if you accompany me in my loneliness ………and if one day I agonize in the meanders of space Tell the darkness that the martyr of love is dead........ and sprinkle stardust on my shroud Dr Fouad Bouchareb Inspired by Farid Al Atrache's song > https://youtu.be/57Xezl_YR6c?si=JVP_kEQZCY8rZbNF All rights reserved

Infernal passion 7543

Boucharfou, 6 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.7 min read.
Fire of passion To the one whose fire of passion burns me How to win your heart, tell me I remain lost and confused and I have no choice I gaze at the stars and lose sleep Yet you promised me the earth and the stars And you swore that like a branch you would resist the wind And that you would hold firm But at the first breath you bent And you shied away at the risk of breaking everything Long gone are the days of your promises Of joys and gladness Your indifference is morbid It kills me and drains me You walked away after a fleeting romance Yet it is neither your habit nor your style It was then that I understood that you were gone for good And I sat down and gave myself over to the wind Mourning your departure The night then How late it is I put on mourning clothes And wept, overcoming my pride I will complain to the judge of passion And denounce your schemes and your ways Only he will know how to do me justice And repair your wrongs So you will feel what I feel And you will burn just like me by the fire of passion Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved Inspired by a mawal of Andalusian music January 1, 2025

The flower of my dreams 7679

Boucharfou, 6 mon.
- Music - Poetry - Romance -
0.4 min read.
The flower of my dreams Oh ! Flower of my dreams grown in my heart And that they took me away Wrongly, what a horror!! hands have crumpled it cruelly Yet her beauty dazzled the eyes A gift from the God of heaven She bewitched young and old Now the fire of my passion has gone out My heart lies empty and bruised I sacrificed my life I lost the rhythm of my melodies And like a bird perched on a branch I dare sing to my faded, to my rose Poetry and prose Hoping to see her resurrected And regain its former splendor Thus dreams hopes will be reborn She will shine with her beauty And will be the star of my bouquet Inspired by the song of Farid Al Atrache (يا زهرة في خيالي) Dr Fouad Bouchareb July 19, 2022 All rights reserved

Pigeon 7861

Boucharfou, 6 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.5 min read.
I saw a pigeon in the valley who was crying in sorrow and called in vain his lover who left him this morning He repeated to anyone who would listen to him how much his heart although tender feels now emptied of love after this departure that left him as dead He lost the joy of living and love in turn He finds this journey through the desert quite long and no one is there to keep him company It’s obvious he misses her and it’s quite clear And sinks into sadness and melancholy Even with time it is impossible for him to forget the one he nevertheless loved madly In love, his heart is well bruised and does not help him overcome so much spite And even if his appearance seems royal His state of mind is so pitiable Translated by Dr Bouchareb Fouad October 19, 2022 All rights reserved

To all women I live ❤️ 8026

Boucharfou, 6 mon.
- Poetry - Philosophy - Romance -
0.4 min read.
To all the women I love Great and sublime celebration that makes my head spin For great ladies We love all these women who stand up to us for much greater equality of friendship and fraternity What would we be without these beautiful creatures! Gift from heaven, jewels of nature? With hearts completely made of gold Avoiding harming us Full of love and passion Pride of the entire nation. These grandmothers we adore These mothers we love These aunts we cherish These wives we adore These sisters we protect These colleagues we rub shoulders with For the love we share So happy birthday, ladies Open your sesame to us Because without us men And despite all our faults Our presence with you Is not superfluous Far from it… Dr. Bouchareb Fouad All right are reserved

The Garonne 7767

Boucharfou, 6 mon.
- Poetry - Romance - Fantasy -
0.2 min read.
The Garonne On the Pont Saint Pierre I contemplate the Garonne Majestic as always Its waters flow And purr slowly As if by magic to say hello to me On the Pont Saint Pierre The Hôtel-Dieu Saint-Jacques rises like a crack Nostalgic for medicine of alchemy and penicillin On the Pont Saint Pierre I walk humming a chance at love waiting for nightfall And watching the day slip away Dr. Bouchareb Fouad Toulouse, October 5, 2022 and May 31, 2025 All rights reserved

Blind love 7702

Boucharfou, 6 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.5 min read.
Blind love To the one who looks at me and pretends not to see me While she is the source of my sorrows and setbacks Yet she confesses to others that she loves me who believes Leaning on her balcony every evening She doesn't care that I always be there at my perch Waiting for a signal from her, a hope To the one who looks at me and pretends not to see me While she is the source of my sorrows and my setbacks In spite I keep drinking And drinking get drunk every night Sitting in front of her window on the sidewalk To the one who looks at me and pretends not to see me While she is the source of my sorrows and my disappointments I say that this story is over now And that elsewhere I will go to see Dr Bouchareb Fouad July 5, 2022 Inspired by a piece of Andalusian music All rights are reserved

Blind love 8103

Boucharfou, 7 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.5 min read.
Blind love To the one who looks at me and pretends not to see me While she is the source of my sorrows and setbacks Yet she confesses to others that she loves me who believes Leaning on her balcony every evening She doesn't care that I always be there at my perch Waiting for a signal from her, a hope To the one who looks at me and pretends not to see me While she is the source of my sorrows and my setbacks In spite I keep drinking And drinking get drunk every night Sitting in front of her window on the sidewalk To the one who looks at me and pretends not to see me While she is the source of my sorrows and my disappointments I say that this story is over now And that elsewhere I will go to see Dr Bouchareb Fouad July 5, 2022 Inspired by a piece of Andalusian music All rights reserved

Le ciel et la lune 8211

Boucharfou, 7 mon.
- Poetry -
0.8 min read.
SOUVENT JE SCRUTE LE CIEL ET CE DEPUIS MON JEUNE AGE JE CONTEMPLE LA LUNE JE VOIS SI ELLE SEMI OU PLEINE JE COMPTE LES ÉTOILES JE CHERCHE CELLE DU NORD JE DEVINE MARS JE CHERCHE JUPITER JE SURVEILLE LES ÉTOILES FILANTES JE RECHERCHE LES OVNIS ET AUTRES EXTRA TERRESTRES JE REFAIS LE COMPTE DES ÉTOILES JE RECHERCHE D'AUTRES LUNES JE PASSE DES HEURES COMME CA A COMPTER ET RECOMPTER A VÉRIFIER LE NOMBRE D’ÉTOILES ET FINALEMENT JE REPLONGE DANS LA RÉALITÉ ET LE QUOTIDIEN LE TRAIN TRAIN ET QUAND LA NUIT REVIENDRA JE REGARDE MON CIEL DE NOUVEAU JE COMPTE ET RECOMPTE LES ÉTOILES JE SCRUTE LA LUNE JE LA DÉVISAGE JE LA REGARDE EN FACE BIEN EN FACE ELLE ROUGIT JE ROUGIS ELLE S’ÉCLIPSE JE SUIS SES TRACES ELLE SE COUCHE JE LA LAISSE ROUPILLER JE ME LÈVE ALORS ET JE SCRUTE LE CIEL BLEU JE DÉTESTE LE SOLEIL QUI ÉBLOUIE JE METS DES LUNETTES POINT D’ÉTOILES POINT DE LUNE SOUDAIN LE SOLEIL EST CHASSE SES RAYONS AUSSI SON ÉBLOUISSEMENT DISPARAIT ET LA LUNE SE LÈVE ET SE RELÈVE MAJESTUEUSE COMME D'HABITUDE ET EN DOUCEUR ELLE ENVOIE SES DOUX RAYONS POINT D’ÉBLOUISSEMENT ET SOUS SON CLAIR VOYONS LE CLAIR DE LUNE JE SCRUTE LE CIEL A LA RECHERCHE DE JUPITER MARS ET AUTRE NEPTUNE SANS LASSITUDE NI AMERTUME JE LA DÉVISAGE ENCORE ET ENCORE SANS REPIS JE LA FIXE ELLE ROUGIT JE ROUGIS JE COMPTE LES ÉTOILES JE COMPTE ET RECOMPTE ET JE VOIS SI LE COMPTE Y EST LA LUNE SE CACHE SOUS UN VOILE ENFIN UN NUAGE MAIS ELLE NE TARDE PAS A REPARAITRE POUR SE CACHER DE NOUVEAU JE LA FIXE ET REFIXE AVEC MON REGARD PATHÉTIQUE ELLE ROUGIT ET VIRE AU JAUNE SA COULEUR MAGNIFIQUE ET TOUTES LES AUTRES ÉTOILES EN FONT DE MÊME Dr Bouchareb Fouad Tous les droits sont protégés