Think Forward.

Romance

The Radiance of a Lady 433

​Your love illuminates my heart, And you have forbidden me to reveal this honor. How can the light of your brilliance be dimmed When it radiates from everywhere? It shines like a sapphire, a diamond, or a jewel, And dazzles everyone with your blonde beauty. You do not believe in my love, In turn, While I can love no one else but you; This is my destiny, this is my faith. You are my heart and my soul, You are my destiny, you are my law. I cannot bear it when you are far away, beautiful woman, You who soothe my heart in flames. In you, I find all my vows, You who make my days happy. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb Inspired by an Andalusian music piece, "Bassit Ibahane" December 13, 2025 https://youtu.be/wlvhOVGyLek?si=5tt6cm0oChF1NQJJ

The Radiance of a Lady 831

​Your love illuminates my heart, And you have forbidden me to reveal this honor. How can the light of your brilliance be dimmed When it radiates from everywhere? It shines like a sapphire, a diamond, or a jewel, And dazzles everyone with your blonde beauty. You do not believe in my love, In turn, While I can love no one else but you; This is my destiny, this is my faith. You are my heart and my soul, You are my destiny, you are my law. I cannot bear it when you are far away, beautiful woman, You who soothe my heart in flames. In you, I find all my vows, You who make my days happy. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb Inspired by an Andalusian music piece, "Bassit Ibahane" December 13, 2025 https://youtu.be/wlvhOVGyLek?si=5tt6cm0oChF1NQJJ

The Radiance of a Lady 874

​Your love illuminates my heart, And you have forbidden me to reveal this honor. How can the light of your brilliance be dimmed When it radiates from everywhere? It shines like a sapphire, a diamond, or a jewel, And dazzles everyone with your blonde beauty. You do not believe in my love, In turn, While I can love no one else but you; This is my destiny, this is my faith. You are my heart and my soul, You are my destiny, you are my law. I cannot bear it when you are far away, beautiful woman, You who soothe my heart in flames. In you, I find all my vows, You who make my days happy. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb Inspired by an Andalusian music piece, "Bassit Ibahane" December 13, 2025 https://youtu.be/wlvhOVGyLek?si=5tt6cm0oChF1NQJJ

The Radiance of a Lady 902

​Your love illuminates my heart, And you have forbidden me to reveal this honor. How can the light of your brilliance be dimmed When it radiates from everywhere? It shines like a sapphire, a diamond, or a jewel, And dazzles everyone with your blonde beauty. You do not believe in my love, In turn, While I can love no one else but you; This is my destiny, this is my faith. You are my heart and my soul, You are my destiny, you are my law. I cannot bear it when you are far away, beautiful woman, You who soothe my heart in flames. In you, I find all my vows, You who make my days happy. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb Inspired by an Andalusian music piece, "Bassit Ibahane" December 13, 2025 https://youtu.be/wlvhOVGyLek?si=5tt6cm0oChF1NQJJ

Kaftan Evening (Soirée Kaftan) 1085

​In a Kaftan evening's glow, Colors compete in vibrant show, And tales of ancient times they sow. They blend within the multi-hue, Granting the festivity its view. The lovely ladies each embrace their dance, To music's rhythm that puts them in a trance. ​Each region of Morocco, for its kaftan, must innovate, The Sefrioui kaftan, adorned with cherries, is great. It pleases me and makes my head spin, The Queen of Cherries is full of grace, She is beautiful, she has class. The yellow Fassi kaftan is sublime, The pink Marrakchi kaftan is intimate. The green Oujdi kaftan is simply top-tier, The red Meknassi kaftan extremely pleases me here. The multicolored Berber kaftan leaves me dreaming and pale, The beige Soussi kaftan I adore and hail. The Sahraoui sky-blue kaftan seduces me as well, The Rifian royal blue kaftan charms like a spell. The red and green Casablanca kaftan is magical, The Rbati kaftan is fantastical. The white Tetouani kaftan is lordly and grand, The pistachio Tangerois kaftan brings emotion to the land. The Chefchaouni kaftan leaves me astounded and mute, The Moroccan kaftan is simply royal in its pursuit. The Safi sky-blue kaftan is very beautiful, From Tangier to Lagouira, It perpetuates since the dawn of time the style of a tailoring, a witness to a great culture's spring, Whose secret and honor only the Cherifian Kingdom keeps, To the great dismay of the envious and the thieves. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved December 11, 2025

Kaftan Evening (Soirée Kaftan) 1099

​In a Kaftan evening's glow, Colors compete in vibrant show, And tales of ancient times they sow. They blend within the multi-hue, Granting the festivity its view. The lovely ladies each embrace their dance, To music's rhythm that puts them in a trance. ​Each region of Morocco, for its kaftan, must innovate, The Sefrioui kaftan, adorned with cherries, is great. It pleases me and makes my head spin, The Queen of Cherries is full of grace, She is beautiful, she has class. The yellow Fassi kaftan is sublime, The pink Marrakchi kaftan is intimate. The green Oujdi kaftan is simply top-tier, The red Meknassi kaftan extremely pleases me here. The multicolored Berber kaftan leaves me dreaming and pale, The beige Soussi kaftan I adore and hail. The Sahraoui sky-blue kaftan seduces me as well, The Rifian royal blue kaftan charms like a spell. The red and green Casablanca kaftan is magical, The Rbati kaftan is fantastical. The white Tetouani kaftan is lordly and grand, The pistachio Tangerois kaftan brings emotion to the land. The Chefchaouni kaftan leaves me astounded and mute, The Moroccan kaftan is simply royal in its pursuit. The Safi sky-blue kaftan is very beautiful, From Tangier to Lagouira, It perpetuates since the dawn of time the style of a tailoring, a witness to a great culture's spring, Whose secret and honor only the Cherifian Kingdom keeps, To the great dismay of the envious and the thieves. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved December 11, 2025

Kaftan Evening (Soirée Kaftan 1100

) ​In a Kaftan evening's glow, Colors compete in vibrant show, And tales of ancient times they sow. They blend within the multi-hue, Granting the festivity its view. The lovely ladies each embrace their dance, To music's rhythm that puts them in a trance. ​Each region of Morocco, for its kaftan, must innovate, The Sefrioui kaftan, adorned with cherries, is great. It pleases me and makes my head spin, The Queen of Cherries is full of grace, She is beautiful, she has class. The yellow Fassi kaftan is sublime, The pink Marrakchi kaftan is intimate. The green Oujdi kaftan is simply top-tier, The red Meknassi kaftan extremely pleases me here. The multicolored Berber kaftan leaves me dreaming and pale, The beige Soussi kaftan I adore and hail. The Sahraoui sky-blue kaftan seduces me as well, The Rifian royal blue kaftan charms like a spell. The red and green Casablanca kaftan is magical, The Rbati kaftan is fantastical. The white Tetouani kaftan is lordly and grand, The pistachio Tangerois kaftan brings emotion to the land. The Chefchaouni kaftan leaves me astounded and mute, The Moroccan kaftan is simply royal in its pursuit. The Safi sky-blue kaftan is very beautiful, From Tangier to Lagouira, It perpetuates since the dawn of time the style of a tailoring, a witness to a great culture's spring, Whose secret and honor only the Cherifian Kingdom keeps, To the great dismay of the envious and the thieves. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved December 11, 2025

My Father's Pen 2533

​I have known it since I was young. My late father, then a school principal, gave me my first pen when I passed my primary school certificate in June 1966, to replace my dip pen, penholder, and inkwell. ​He taught me how to hold it between my thumb and index finger and how to improve my handwriting in both Arabic and French. ​He taught me to choose the best verb, the best sentence to express my feelings and reveal my emotions of the moment. He instilled in me the art of juggling with the taxonomy of verbs and, subsequently, the choice of the best tense for conjugating them. He never stopped repeating to me that the solemnity of the moment required a faithful reflection of the recount of events, whether actually experienced or imagined. He taught me to reflect on what I was going to write before drafting and consulting. ​He had the art and manner of transmitting his knowledge to me with passion and love. He took all the time for this patiently, never reprimanding me for a spelling mistake or when I rolled my Rs. He knew that by doing so, he succeeded in setting me on the right path for drafting, narration, pronunciation, and written and oral expression. ​I often used to lock myself in my studio, which was located in the garden of our staff housing at the Sidi Amr school in Meknes. ​This is how I began to write short stories, poems, and even love letters to an imaginary beloved. ​I also kept my personal diary. ​My French teacher in the first year, called the observation class, at Moulay Ismail High School, Mr. Rossetti, encouraged me to write. ​My pen was a precious tool for me, allowing me to express everything I felt at that time of my life. For me, it was a way not only to entertain myself but also to consolidate a gift for writing and composing poems. My father supervised what I produced in writing from a distance and had the art and manner of correcting my essays while encouraging me to move forward. ​My "vocabulary" capital grew day by day. ​I had gotten into the habit of writing in one go, without resorting to a draft. ​Now that I am nearing seventy, I continue to write with a disconcerting ease that surprises those around me. ​For me, there is nothing surprising, because I possess genes transmitted by my father, an outstanding teacher and school principal who officiated for more than forty years and who, like me and my brothers and sisters, trained hundreds and hundreds of students. ​May he rest in peace and know that his pen is in good hands. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved November 27, 2025

My father's pen 2622

​I have known it since my young age. My late father, then a school principal, offered me my first pen when I passed my primary school certificate in June 1966. He thus taught me how to hold it between my thumb and index finger and to improve my handwriting in both Arabic and French. I often used to lock myself in my studio, which was located in the garden of our official residence at the Sidi Amr school in Meknes. This is how I started writing short stories, poems, and even love letters to an imaginary beloved. I also kept my personal diary. My French teacher in the first year, called the observation class, at Moulay Ismail High School, Mr. Rossetti, encouraged me to write. My pen was a precious tool for me, allowing me to express everything I felt at that time in my life. It was a way for me not only to entertain myself but also to consolidate a gift for writing and composing poems. My father supervised my writings from a distance and had the art and manner of correcting my essays while encouraging me to move forward. My "vocabulary" capital was enriched day after day. I had acquired the habit, to this day, of writing in a single draft without resorting to a rough copy. Now that I am close to seventy years old, I continue to write with a disconcerting ease that surprises those around me. For me, this is not surprising because I possess genes transmitted by my father, an outstanding teacher and school principal who officiated for more than forty years and who, like me and my brothers and sisters, trained hundreds and hundreds of students. May he rest in peace and may he know that his pen is in good hands. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved November 27, 2025

​✍️ My Father's Pen 2633

​I have known it since my young age. My late father, then a school director, gave me my first pen when I successfully passed my primary school leaving certificate in June 1966. He taught me how to hold it between my thumb and forefinger and how to improve my handwriting, both in Arabic and in French. ​He taught me to choose the best verb, the best sentence to express what I felt and to reveal my emotions of the moment. He instilled in me the art of juggling with the taxonomy of verbs and subsequently choosing the best tense for conjugating them. He never stopped repeating to me that the solemnity of the moment required faithfully reflecting the narrative of events truly experienced or imagined. He taught me to think about what I was going to write before drafting and consulting. ​He had the art and the manner of transmitting his knowledge to me with passion and love. He patiently took all the time for this without ever reprimanding me for a spelling mistake or when I rolled my R's. He knew that this way he succeeded in putting me on the right track for drafting, narration, pronunciation, and written and oral expression. ​I often locked myself in my studio, which was in the garden of our official residence at the Sidi Amr school in Meknes. This is how I began to write small stories, poems, and even love letters to an imaginary sweetheart. I also kept my personal diary. ​My French teacher in the first year, called the observation class, at Moulay Ismail high school, Mr. Rossetti, encouraged me to write. My pen was a precious tool for me that allowed me to express everything I felt at that time in my life. It was for me a way not only to distract myself but also to consolidate a gift for writing and composing poems. My father supervised what I produced in writing from a distance and had the art and the manner of correcting my essays while encouraging me to move forward. My "vocabulary" capital grew day by day. I had gotten into the habit, to this day, of writing in one go without resorting to a draft. ​Now that I am nearing seventy, I continue to write with a disconcerting ease that surprises those around me. For me, nothing is astonishing, because I possess genes transmitted by my father, an unparalleled teacher and school director who officiated for over forty years and who, like me and my brothers and sisters, trained hundreds and hundreds of students. ​May he rest in peace and know that his pen is in good hands. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved November 27, 2025

🖍️ Colouring 2418

​I left my time And I was quite happy about it to rejoin the past in order to snoop around to better understand my destiny ​deep in my subconscious everything I wanted to reach without being able to: the list was truly exhaustive ​I left my time And I was quite happy about it despite the hazards and the drifts I wanted to sort things out in my life ​when suddenly bewildered and without warning I had the idea of choosing coloured pencils which were a sham in my previous life because they were beyond my means in primary school!!! ​I was conscious but reckless I simply wanted to learn to decorate my world to colour abstract shapes, square or round to flee this unbearable daily life!!! ​I left my time And I was quite happy about it To draw the moon in black, the sky in red; To freeze time and everything that moves To put horns on my donkey Just to embellish its skull!!!! ​to draw many flowers 🌺 on my bedroom door. ​I left my time And I was quite happy about it All this really made sense to me. And I thought about it with emotion ​Today that I have the coloured pencils a reality and not a sham the desire has suddenly evaporated and my dream is not realised the inspiration is no longer there Alas, I no longer dream.... ​Dr Fouad Bouchareb Tuesday, March 26, 2019 @à la une #Laune

​🏰 Sandcastle🏰 3119

​It often happened to me that I would draw my dreams on quicksand which ruthless waves, crashing upon the shore, came to destroy to erase all hope and preserve my setbacks Yet, I was naive and unaware My pretensions vanish and disappear in a few moments My apprehensions resurface nonetheless Consequently, I remain distraught for a long time and cry over the ruins of the quicksands ​Dr Fouad Bouchareb All rights are reserved Agadir, November 18, 2025

The Lost Necklace 3400

The Lost Necklace ​How beautiful is your dentition Which sparkles like a necklace of diamonds ​So Desirable and appetizing ​When I kiss you and embrace you ​With fervor and grace ​I savor your saliva like such fine milk ​Where musk and wine mingle ​O apple of my eye O gift from the heavens ​It is you I love and desire ​Your presence is a true pleasure ​What must I do to attract you and please you? ​When you fled My insomnia deprived me of your smile ​Suddenly the gleam of the necklace eclipsed ​And I found myself sick and lost ​To the great dismay of my messenger ​Will you return one day? ​Will you keep your promise? ​Who will transmit my poetry? ​Perhaps one evening the South wind ​Will bring you my message ​Which confesses my feelings and my pledges ​My sorrows and my misfortunes ​And the slender hope ​Of seeing the gleam of your dentition in the dark one day ​Dr Fouad Bouchareb Inspired by an Andalusian music poem Quoddam El Hgaz El Kebir November 8, 2025

​The Ultimate Dance 💃 ​ 3463

​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

Leïla Slimani: when words spoken to please betray the reality of an entire country civilisation... 4120

The recent statements by the writer Leïla Slimani, Moroccan to us, Franco-Moroccan on television programs, have not gone unnoticed at all. Leïla Slimani made a particularly pointed remark regarding Moroccan women and mothers that sparked a strong controversy going beyond simple differences of opinion. Leïla was among the guests on the show "Tout le monde en parle". A show that survived its creator Thiery Ardisson, in Quebec but not in France. The statements in question, perceived as condescending and disconnected from the social and cultural realities of Morocco, deeply offended many Moroccan women. Especially those who, like her, write in French and consume cultural programs in French. They did not let her remarks pass, far from it. Many responded to her. Some more harshly than others. She received backlash like never before in her life. The reactions were measured, reasoned, and blunt even if politely delivered. Some were real lessons addressed to someone who truly deserved a strong reminder. All reminded her that many mothers, constrained by difficult conditions, have raised their children with courage, dignity, and a keen sense of values, and today refuse that their commitment be reduced to simplistic clichés or one-sided judgments whose only purpose is to create buzz on television sets. On social networks and in public spaces, the reaction was unanimous and passionate. Moroccan women, at least those who spoke, firmly rejected the stereotypical vision inflicted on them, denouncing a sometimes moralistic and westernized posture that ignores the complexity and richness of their experience. Their role can neither be reduced nor caricatured, as it is fundamental in the construction of Moroccan society, itself evolving but deeply rooted in its traditions, resilience, and unique identity. The sentence where Leïla Slimani speaks of revenge as a value that mothers would teach their children, girls in particular, does not pass and will not pass. She cited her own grandmother as an example, absent to contradict her... This expression is truly inappropriate as well as misleading. The opposite is true: one of the fundamental values of Moroccan society is precisely forgiveness. Forgiveness is taught and lived daily in social relations here. Life revolves around forgiveness. The word forgiveness in darija is uttered dozens of times a day by everyone here. *Lalla Leila, do we really need to remind you that Moroccan culture is not nourished by resentment, and even less by revenge, but by a demand: a demand for respect and nuance.* Today, Moroccan society is progressing, but it firmly rejects external judgments imposed without a deep understanding of the local context, whether religious or cultural. As a public figure representing Morocco on the international stage, if you please, you should show greater prudence and empathy in your remarks. Speaking a truth is one thing, inventing it is another, especially since the context was not fiction but a widely viewed program. This controversy highlights a persistent symbolic fracture between a certain elite living abroad and the real Morocco, the one that lives, struggles, and moves forward at its own pace, certainly, but makes true progress. Criticism is legitimate, questioning is salutary, but it must always be done with rigor, responsibility, and above all respect. Public speech must never humiliate nor infantilize Moroccan women, and even less in their essential and vital role: raising new generations. Morocco is not frozen in stereotypes. Moroccan women, whether lawyers, entrepreneurs, teachers, artists, workers, artisans, or stay-at-home mothers, lead every day, in the shadows of essential battles, based on a quiet strength worthy of admiration. Their modernity is an inner, patient, and authentic process that has nothing to envy from imported discourse. Their future lies in their hands and will not be shaped by words uttered here or there just to impress an audience eager for primitive orientalism. Beyond that, this affair broadly reveals the difficulty some Moroccans of the diaspora face to reconcile distance and sensitivity towards their country of origin. This is the bridge needed for dialogue, based on sincere listening and respectful sharing of experiences. Through this misstep, Leïla Slimani showed how a disconnected word can deeply hurt, especially when it comes from one of our own. And if the phrase pronounced by Leïla Slimani only reflected her personal feeling and perhaps a repressed desire for revenge linked to her family past. Her father, the late Othmane Slimani, a prominent economist who was once minister and bank boss, went through a real downfall, accused of malfeasance. He succumbed to lung cancer before the end of the judicial process, having appealed a first ruling condemning him in first instance. It must nevertheless be recognized that it was under his presidency of the Fédération Royale Marocaine de Football that the Moroccan National Football Team won the only African title it holds to this day. That was in 1976. Moroccans have never forgotten this epic and still thank Si Slimani, the selector Mehdi Belmejdoub, coach Mardarescu, and the players of the time led by Ahmed Faras. Madam Slimani, who deserves respect for who she is, must simply understand that Morocco does not ask for lessons, but for genuine understanding and respectful dialogue to support its transformation and the great progress made. Spreading nonsense and ideas that don’t match its history, the values of its citizens, and even less those of its women, does not honor a writer who aspires to make history. Many before her have tried the same path in their quest to be more royalist than the king; none succeeded. Morocco can be left, but it never leaves us, and that is why it must be respected. **Morocco is certainly about good food, good drink, but not about revenge.** This is my response to Leïla Slimani, on behalf of my mother, my grandmother, and all the mothers and grandmothers, if they would allow me...

Dreams 4744

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 4956

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 4762

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 5479

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! 5904

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 5617

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 4759

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

My Street 4494

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

My Generation 4568

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

Being Doctors 13724

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 10594

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 7377

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 7505

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 7685

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 ❤️ 7859

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 7593

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 7535

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