Think Forward.

Romance

The Lost Necklace 145

Boucharfou, 19 h.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.5 min read.
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 💃 ​ 339

Boucharfou, 2 d.
- 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

Leïla Slimani: when words spoken to please betray the reality of an entire country civilisation... 1035

Aziz Daouda, 6 d.
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 1930

Boucharfou, 15 d.
- 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 2156

Boucharfou, 17 d.
- 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 2242

Boucharfou, 18 d.
- 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 3046

Boucharfou, 25 d.
- 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! 3500

Boucharfou, 27 d.
- 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 3604

Boucharfou, 28 d.
- 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 3733

Boucharfou, 29 d.
- 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

My Street 3762

Boucharfou, 1 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

My Generation 3734

Boucharfou, 1 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

Being Doctors 12345

Boucharfou, 4 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 9450

Boucharfou, 4 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 6374

Boucharfou, 4 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 6512

Boucharfou, 4 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 6770

Boucharfou, 5 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 ❤️ 6960

Boucharfou, 5 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 6683

Boucharfou, 5 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 6646

Boucharfou, 5 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 6992

Boucharfou, 5 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

I love you, left untrue 4470

Brad Ovitt, 1 y.
- Poetry - Romance -
0.4 min read.
Inertia constitutes existence and change. The dogged boy falls in love, left a sorrowful heart, so alone. Yesterday, he held his pillow to sleep. Today, in body and spirit, he's on his own, left with painful words to patch his soul. Could a dream be so determined to neglect the living smile? Passion and reality so meant to diffuse? The crime committed was self-inflicted, both body and spirit disposed to the Holy rhythm of Love. Don't forget me, the sorrowful boy digs his final words, yet only the silence is left to carry the empty dispositions. For each other, Three together, Two alone, One left. The end of an unwritten song. I love you, left untrue.

God surely forgives lies for a good cause Part 1 4265

Aziz Daouda, 2 y.
His mother had been suffering from a very serious illness for months. Everyone around her knew that her life was going to be shorter and shorter and that it was only a matter of time before she left them forever. The mother was the only one who didn't know it and who had the hope of an almost certain recovery. At the first diagnosis, the doctors thought they could work some miracle. He was happy about it, convinced that a surgical intervention, the work of a great specialist, would restart the machine. It was just an optical illusion one would say. To his great dismay, the same afternoon, he was told that the operation was not possible. It was too late. The disease had spread like a constellation of hundreds of stars. Poor mother's entire body was riddled with small, seemingly quiet particles, so dangerous, so uncontrollable. No medicine could dislodge them from this body so pale, so frail. Total impotence. With his sisters Aoula and Tania present with him at the mother's bedside, they decided not to say anything to either the mother or the 80-age father who naively trusted them a lot and believed everything they told him as a version of things. Perhaps he was also pretending so as not to contradict them. He had to be taken care of too, they thought. On the contrary, they told him that the doctors had seen that it was not necessary to operate on his wife of half a century or more and that with light radiotherapy and appropriate medication, everything would return to normal. Today he still remembers the big smile of relief from his mother who told those who visited her, with a beaming face, that thank God she was going to make it through without surgery. She experienced it as a moment of triumph against illness, a moment of glory, a moment of rediscovered youth. Her face lit up and regained color...These were the last moments of joy and happiness for the poor mother.

God certainly forgives lying for a good cause. Part 2 4046

Aziz Daouda, 2 y.
God certainly forgives lying for a good cause. Hazard doing things well, sometimes, this period coincided exactly with the end that he had decided for his long and trying career. He had thought about it for a long time and had resigned himself to a break that he intended to be definitive. This made him available to stand by the mother he loved so much. He thus spent most of his time at her bedside, as did his sisters who were present at the family home permanently to take care of the one who had made eight litters, appreciated academics, citizens devoted to their country. It couldn't be otherwise. The example was a mother who had attended the first classes of the modern school in Fez and a father who was more than devoted to his profession. The frequent trips to the clinic for check-ups or perhaps to leave some amount of money there again and again, were for the mother synonymous with hope and for them with repeated ordeal; renewed moments of confirmation of despair; Things were getting worse every day, exponentially... He wondered all the time if this medical relentlessness was wise or if he was just speeding things up. He will never have an answer to his questions. At every moment he wished for good not to relive this decline, if he himself were to be affected one day. Suspecting something, one day the mother asked sister Tania to explain to her why he was still there and why he no longer worked. She wanted to know if it had any relation to her health. He then felt that perhaps he should disappear for a few days. Just to reassure the poor mother, even paler, even more frail. He then decided to travel to Brazzaville where for several years already, he had been organizing, on behalf of the Town Hall, at the time one of the best sports festivals on the continent. For this reason, Congolese President Sassou Nguessou made him an Officer of the National Order. A decoration which tickled his pride and which he often talks about. He was convinced that such a trip for few days would reassure the mother about her state of health and reassure her. He read that in her eyes and heard it in the tone of her hesitant voice when he told her that he was going to the Congo for work. Two days later he arrived in Brazzaville around 2 a.m.… Barely in his room with his suitcase still unpacked, he receives a call from his sister Tania, overcome by an astonishing panic: “She died”, he asked without even thinking? Tania reassures him that no, but that the poor mother had fallen into a deep coma. The Casablanca-Brazzaville and return connection was daily. So, he only had to wait until the next night to return. He took the trouble to apologize to thz host Mayor Alfonse L, then director of the festival, and set off on his way back. He reached his mother's bedside in an irreversible sleep on March 14. In the evening around 8 or 9 p.m., while he was holding her hand, his brother M was reciting Surah Yacine to him out loud, and all his children: J, A, El, F his wife, were around the medical bed where the mother had spent a few weeks, in the room that had been specially designed for her; she gave up the ghost. One last deep breath, one last long and soft sigh which spoke volumes about the suffering endured for months. His right hand, which he was holding tenderly, relaxed and began to cool. The dad who was there of course, couldn't believe it. While he announced to everyone that she was gone, the father shouted at him that no and that he just had to resuscitate her, addressing with authority his son M, a doctor of proven competence. It took a few long minutes for the dad to come to his senses and accept that he had just lost his soul mate at that precise moment. The one who brilliantly gave him 8 children and educated them all in the best possible way. This is how the late mother left, 17 years ago to the day. The same day his younger sister S gave birth to Z who today we call the bogoss at the age of 17. Like life goes on. The day after the death, while her sister S was returning home with her baby in hand, the others were preparing to put the inert body of the mother in the ground, peacefully lying there, meticulously washed and wrapped in the traditional white shroud. Before she was completely enclosed in this sheet; they had all leaned over to place a last kiss on the deceased's face but do she felt it, do she felt such pain that tore their insides. Sadness, pain, support from close friends, solidarity from the extended family, incense and the Koran, a few cries, intertwined in an unforgettable moment, with indelible traces. Every year on the eve of this sad anniversary, his daughter calls him to support him because she knows the pain that the mother's disappearance had instilled in him. She then asks him to make an offering in her name. A symbolic sum that he gives to the first needy person who crosses his path that day. Her daughter and her grandmother were very close. She often tells him: “It was Lalla who taught us to be the men and women we are today, each of us bears the trace of her example and her teaching. »

Mustapha Guiliz: The door ajar... 4895

Aziz Daouda, 2 y.
"In writing this book, I aspire to a more humane form of justice, one that ensures equality between citizens, but also the right to fulfil oneself." This sentence, full of meaning and questions, is by Si Mustapha Guiliz. It is taken from the article that the newspaper "L'économiste" devoted on 3 January 2024 to the presentation of the book "les hommes de la nuit" published by Orion, whose founding president is none other than Si Abdelhak Najib. The article is followed by an edifying interview with Si Mustapha Guiliz, the author of the book. This is an author whom Bluwr readers and members have had the privilege of meeting and, above all, appreciating through his article "Education through values", which appeared in Bluwr few weeks ago. Si Mustapha GUILIZ is a teacher and writer who has already written "Le Monde d'Brahim" and "Au pays des sources". Contrary to the title of the book, which might suggest that the author is a dull, even embittered character, Si Mustapha is a pleasant person, with a youthful smile that is pleasant, fulfilled, indulgent and tender. When you come into contact with him, you realise just how far removed he is from the subjects he covers. This detachment, which is both intelligent and not at all indifferent, allows him to go into the depths of things with the objectivity that is both necessary and required. Having had an hour-long discussion with Si Mustapha one fine morning last November, I was able to gauge and appreciate his detachment and depth of philosophical analysis. "The men in my book are men with a capital M, who have made the best of life in the dark," he says. In fact, for Si Mustapha, all men deserve a name with a capital M, and not just the characters in his inspired fiction. In a world of injustice, he dreams of justice. In a world where women suffer, he dreams of ideal conditions for them all. In a world of abused power, he dreams of moderation and balanced power. In a world of despair, he dreams of fulfilment. Is he an idealist from another planet, the one on which he sails to bring his characters to life? He is the only one to know ... In any case, this sentence "Through the writing of this book, I aspire to a more humane form of justice, one that aims to ensure equality between citizens, but also the right to fulfil oneself" fits his character perfectly. We need so many people like him to reveal our reality to us, but also to open the door to hope and to urge us to break it down. I'm writing these lines to congratulate Si Mustapha, whose book is a perfect start to this new year of service to the community, and to express my pride in knowing him and publishing articles with him on Bluwr, in the hope of reading him again soon on the platform.
laverite.ma/les-hommes-de-la-nui...

Melusine - Part 1 4445

Live reports from dreamland, 2 y.
The sun, that day, had forgotten to set. As he was reclining on a curvy and narrow chaise longue, Sebastian Byrne looked at the slant rays glimmering through the yellowing leaves on the lowest branches of the elms. Their brass-trimmed green lace ebbed and flowed as the wind blew away the last minutes of the golden hour. Sebastian brought the quilt closer to his neck. He sighed, scattering some crumbs around for the birds; but that evening none dared to fly by. Maybe Nathan had lost track of time on his way to the post office and back, and would not come, as he promised, before dusk. They had always watched the sun set together. They did so for the last six weeks, before Sebastian fell ill; and for the first day he could step outside, Nathan did not even bother to be on time. Undergrads will be undergrads… Sebastian was staring absentmindedly at the slow, suspended vanishing of the light when muffled footsteps echoed down the hill, along the side path that lead to the verandah. - Sebastian! The silvery voice rushed towards Sebastian, followed from a distance by a buoyant, youthful figure clad in light linen, waving a folded paper. The figure flew nearer, leaping, kid-like, on the smooth slope where Mrs Byrne’s garden weaved itself into a wilderness of low bushes and wild roses. A smile flickered across Sebastian’s thin, slightly parched lips, and disappeared. He had always seen Nathan skipping and leaping around, from the day he had interviewed him as a candidate for Oxford. While most of the applicants were timidly sliming along the college’s staircases and the tutors’ questions, Nathan jumped along the steps as he did through Greek and Latin periods. A rare breed he was, that seventeen-year-old brat, in a time when undergraduate faces were drawn by sullenness and tedious ploughing. And here he was, two years later, running back from Mrs Byrne’s country house, a letter in his hand. It was that white rectangle that chased Sebastian’s smile away. It was, doubtlessly, the answer Nathan had been expecting for weeks. Sebastian, they wrote back! « I know », thought Sebastian. « They wrote back and had the answer been negative, you would not have leaped so vivaciously, would you now? » Presently Nathan threw himself on the chaise longue, which squeaked under the attack, and stuck the letter under Sebastian’s nose. - Tolle, lege! Sebastian’s lips quivered as he caught glimpses of the words carefully drawn in dense black ink on the white paper. The handwriting leaned gently towards the right, on even lines that left an elegant margin on each side of the silken-white paper. Dear Sir, I am very grateful for you reply. I have read the reference letter sent to me by Doctor Byrne with great interest and his account of your accomplishments… We are very pleased that you are able to join us in spite of the circumstances… Looking forward… Did Madame de La S*** answer herself? Sebastian did not read any further. The thin, straight lines seemed to curl up, fading into one another, becoming barely legible. He smiled and extended his hand: « Well done, young man. This is an unexpected step, but an expected success. And they seem quite keen. » The last paragraph was indeed pressuring. It was urgent that the position would be filled. As many other applicants had manifested interest, Nathan was expected to arrive as early as possible, or they will be forced to hire someone else. « I would need to go as early as possible, maybe the day after tomorrow », said Nathan. It was not until then that Nathan looked at his tutor’s face. As the golden sunlight was turning to purple, he realized the sudden and deep changes the disease had impressed on Sebastian Byrne’s face, once full of strength, intelligence, and mercy. When he had first met Sebastian — then Doctor Byrne to him, Nathaniel Kiernan fell under the spell of these grey eyes, so deeply grey they sometimes seemed black. For two years, almost every day, he had sat under their keen gaze in Sebastian’s room, a shabby but spacious set that overlooked Saint Mary’s tower and the Bodleian’s dome. Those were the days we shall remember as the last golden golden glory sining over the Spires. Not that these were better days, but this time is gone. Surely, then, tutors complained about the termly fifth)week gloom, about the food, at times too rich and at times too poor, and about the noises that the new automobiles made, covering the trodding and rattling of the carriages. Those days poured over the city one after the other, year after year. Matriculation speech faded into Christmas carols as we snuggled in library nooks during the winter; then Summer Eights dragged us out by the river, revision books in hand, then graduation ceremonies rushed upon us and after the long, and yet too short, summer vacation, Matriculation happened again, ushering in a new cohort of Freshers’ faces, at once enthusiastic and anxious, the youthful barbarians from Eton or Harrow, the models of appropriateness from hard-working grammar schools. Under the gaze of the dreaming spires, the streets teemed with laughter that rang along the chiming bells, with inebriated songs at the crack of dawn, with the joyful glee and careless wrath that came with the examinations’ results. While the colleges remained unchanged, their stones and statues clad in centuries of iteration, the young faces around made every morning new. Even Sir Rayleigh, the provost, seemed like a playful young man to Nathan the first time he met him, his eyes sparkling with cheerful wit under his wrinkled forehead and his snow-white hair. Nathan was one of these modern foundlings, all family ties loosened by a scandalous divorce that threw the name he bore into shame, then into oblivion. Her mother at least had the decency to spare enough money for his education but just enough. Her family would refuse to do anything for a Kiernan boy. As he settled in Oxford, Nathan saw Doctor Byrne as a master more than a tutor. He was impressed by the man’s thoughtful silences as much as by his constant good spirits; he mimicked the way Byrne’s long white fingers rose in a slow arabesque before he spoke, strived to reform the sharp angles of his character to match Byrne’s composed temperance, and copied Byrne’s way of parting his hair in a falsely messy line he wore slightly askew. « Byrne has his way with the young gentlemen, the provost used to say. He talks to them like he was their father, and smiles at them like he was their sister! ». What a difference a few months had made. Oxford, in a few days, was deserted as people ran away from a nameless disease, that seemed to appear nowhere else.

"Violently in Love" 3986

El Hombre Galan, 2 y.
- Poetry - Romance -
0.3 min read.
It was written on her, the poetry of beauty, prose holding struggle and experience Buried in night, wrapped in warm arms Empty space gone and air escapes two sunken bodies An embrace lost in time, I am yours and you are mine The warmth of your skin burns, turns me to ash The sight of you makes my thoughts bleed Your hands dissolve me slowly The taste of you poisons my senses. You have made me bare-boned and raw, I am endless Your existence creates standing water that runs deep in my soul Will you come to me? I will wait. How soon is now? With you is a place where time does not exist.

"The hard truth of loving" 3765

El Hombre Galan, 2 y.
- Poetry - Romance -
0.5 min read.
I am this love to you I’ll pick you up all the times you are blue I’ll shelter you from the rain, wipe you tears and absorb your pain— never waiving in front of you- conquering, ambitious, risky, poetic, passionate, sexy and raw, I’ll ask you to enter but then you crawl But I say for these ideals and truths of us to last, what is your love to me when you take off that mask? What is your love, you offer to me? For the days and nights to set me free. What is your love that takes me from this place? What is your love that opens up me? What is it you have to offer, average love will not due because we are not the love common for two I ask you again, what is your love that is my end? What is your love that cannot bend?

"You" 3802

El Hombre Galan, 2 y.
- Poetry - Romance -
0.3 min read.
Angry, lost, and afraid- in world I never made Raging, sadness, and rotten- I, in a world, time has forgotten Until her She gave peace, mind, and strength She holds me tight and gives my darkness the kindest light- to be happy with such happiness You are the good that goodness gets to be

"Dancing in the Rain" 3762

El Hombre Galan, 2 y.
- Poetry - Romance -
0.5 min read.
She reminded him of no one He was trapped in a dream he wanted He had demons that danced with perfect vulgar in her night that never ended Je suis es noir- he is the black Je suis es blanc- she is the white She needed him like she needs the light She hides from him in the shadows, but he owns the night He was all she never wanted, emotionally complex, and couldn’t understand He was barbed wire on a bloody heart She was all he never wanted, complex emotionally, and understands couldn't She was an anvil made of glass It wasn’t anything but everything, like beautiful demolition The life that breaths life The good that makes bad feel good These words that could not be said, only seen in stares with my eyes Dancing in perfect laughter until we see the sun rise