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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 Meknès, 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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Dreams 1441

Boucharfou, 11 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 1667

Boucharfou, 13 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 1753

Boucharfou, 14 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 2557

Boucharfou, 20 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! 3007

Boucharfou, 23 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 3111

Boucharfou, 24 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 3241

Boucharfou, 25 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

An Illusory Return 3611

Boucharfou, 27 d.
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.... 3771

Boucharfou, 29 d.
- 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 3873

Boucharfou, 29 d.
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 3706

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

Love 3558

Boucharfou, 1 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 3656

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

The Alleys of Marrakech 3525

Boucharfou, 1 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 3574

Boucharfou, 1 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 3580

Boucharfou, 1 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 3699

Boucharfou, 1 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

Les médecins aux pieds nus 673

Boucharfou, 1 mon.
- History - Society - Lifestyle -
1.7 min read.
Un texte en français a retenu mon attention pendant ma première année de premier cycle au lycée Moulay Ismail de Meknès. Il a même été déterminant dans mon choix précoce de faire des études de médecine. Mon professeur de Français Mr Rossetti nous avait donné comme devoir à faire un résumé de texte d'un article intitulé les médecins aux pieds nus. J'étais fasciné par l'histoire de ces praticiens chinois prénomés ainsi et qui sillonait ce vaste pays en allant d'une localité à une autre prodiguer des soins à la population. Ils bravaient les conditions difficiles et s'acquittaient de leurs tâches avec beaucoup de dévouement et d'abnégation. Ils ne se plaignaient jamais, ne réclamaient jamais de l'argent contre les prestations. Ils s'excercaient une médecine de proximité en donnant des soins de santé, certes , basiques mais ô combien appréciés et efficaces pour des communautés vulnérables, pauvres mais dignes et reconnaissantes. Les journées de travail étaient longues et fastidieuses. Les conditions climatiques étaient souvent dures et extrêmes..... Après mes études de médecine , et après un bref passage dans le privé, j'ai décidé d'embrasser une carrière en santé publique. Je voulais devenir l'un de ces médecins aux pieds nus. Ma décision a été déjà prise depuis longtemps et mon rêve venait enfin de ce réaliser ce huit novembre 1983 juste après la célébration de la glorieuse Fête de la marche verte. C'était pour moi un signe du destin. Après une longue carrière en santé publique de plus de trente trois ans de service j'ai côtoyé beaucoup de merveilleux médecins qui tout comme moi ont choisi cette voie. Plusieurs d'entre eux faisaient partie de ma promotion de la faculté de médecine de Rabat. Une promotion fantastique. D'autres étaient plus âgés que moi. Certains plus jeunes ont rejoint notre contingent. Ces médecins étaient des médecins aux pieds nus. Ils ont choisi de servir les marocains dans des zones éloignées. Les conditions de vie, d'habitat et de travail étaient difficiles. Les salaires étaient de misère. Mais il n'y avait pas de place pour la cupidité et le corruption. Les rares cas étaient très vite repérés et rapellés à l'ordre par les pairs. L'absentéisme était bani. Les congés étaient courts. Une certaine symbiose s'était très vite instaurée entre les médecins et la population. Beaucoup de ces confrères ont vécu plusieurs années dans des zones reculées sans jamais penser à chercher à partir ailleurs. Certains d'entre eux ont participé à des campagnes de santé et des couvertures médicales sans jamais réclamer des indemnités. Beaucoup de ces médecins sont décédés dans l'anonymat le plus total en combattant des épidémies dont le covid 19 est le meilleur exemple. D'autres vivent leur retraite dans une certaine précarité mais restent dignes et fiers du devoir accompli en attendant le son du glas. Ce sont ce genre de praticiens qui manquent actuellement au pays et ce sont ces médecins dont le Maroc a besoin; Des médecins aux pieds nus. Dr Fouad Bouchareb Ex haut cadre du ministère de la santé Rabat le 25 Septembre 2025 Tous les droits sont réservés @à la une

Amour 1004

Boucharfou, 2 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.6 min read.
L'Amour! L'amour est un destin On ne choisit guère le moment d'aimer Ça arrive un soir ou un matin Ça survient par le pur des hasards ça vous rend confus et hagards Un jour où on s'y attend le moins On n'a rien vu venir de loin Ça arrive en un clin d'œil.. Sans rendez-vous.. Ça vous rend doux.. Ça vous fait perdre la raison.. Ça vous fait fuire la maison Comme le feu ça vous brûle de passion Le coup de foudre est légion Vous aurez votre part, votre ration Sans logique... Mais c'est beau malgré tout ce qu'on endure C'est un sentiment pur Quand c'est sincère C'est magique C'est fantastique Malgré ses peines et chagrins, ses nuits blanches jusqu'au matin C'est l'élixir de la vie C'est l'extase à l'infini... Ça vous arrive par magie.. Se contenter d'aimer vous éloigne de tout.. Ça vous assiége de partout! Ça vous accapare! Ca vous rendra fou tôt ou tard!!! Dr Fouad Bouchareb El Medano /Tenerife Le 24 Août 2025 Inspiré d'un texte de Jalal Eddine Erroumi جلال الدين الرومي Tous les droits sont réservés

Love 5346

Boucharfou, 2 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

Narcissisme à l'extrême 1265

Boucharfou, 4 mon.
- Lifestyle - Health - Poetry -
0.7 min read.
Qu'il est beau l'homme au chapeau! Un pur sagittaire Hors pair Digne et téméraire Mystérieux Énigmatique Curieux Rêveur doux et rebelle à la fois Pour sa famille c'est une idole Pour ses confrères il est gentil et drôle Pour ses amis c'est un centre d'attractivité Ses journées inondent d'activités Il défie toutes les lois Regard revolver Imposant respect et égards Sociable et plutôt serviable Un sourire en coin ne laissant jamais indifférent ceux qui le côtoient l'admirent ceux qui le combattent finissent par déguerpir Sa beauté est perceptible de loin Quoique fanée à certains coins Il dissimule sous son chapeau clair bien des secrets, des énigmes, des rêves et des envies Son charisme est réel Un don du ciel Son élégance n’a rien à envier à ses concurrents Une force bien cachée, Une étoile qui chante au cœur d'une nuit égarée, une chanson d'amour du passé qui défie à l'infini et c'est mieux ainsi les autres étoiles ébahies et épatées dans un ciel serein et qui répètent des refrains en attendant la levée du jour et l'apparition du soleil et la chaleur des ses rayons tour à tour Sa bonté est légendaire Son amitié est exemplaire Sa réputation dépassent les frontières et rivalisent ses congénères Dr Fouad Bouchareb Tous les droits sont réservés Agadir le 17 juillet 2025

Being Doctors 12180

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 9319

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 6245

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

Infernale passion 1311

Boucharfou, 4 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.7 min read.
Le feu de la passion A celle dont le feu de la passion me brûle Comment gagner ton cœur dites le moi Je reste perdu et confus et je n'ai pas le choix Je contemple les étoiles et perd mon sommeil Pourtant tu m'as promis monts et merveilles Et tu as juré que comme une branche tu résistera au vent Et que tu tiendra bon Mais aux premiers souffles tu t'es pliée Et tu t'es dérobée au risque de tout casser Loin est le temps de tes promesses De joie et d'allégresse Ton indifférence est morbide Elle me tue et me vide Tu t'es éloigné après une furtive idyle Pourtant ce n'est ni ton habitude ni ton style C'est alors que j'ai compris que tu es partie pour de bon Et je m'étais assis et livré au vent En pleurant ton départ La nuit alors qu'il fait tard J'ai mis des vêtements de deuil Et pleuré en surmotant mon orgueil Je me plaindrai auprès du juge de la passion Et dénoncerai tes manigances et tes façons Seul lui saura me rendre justice Et réparera tes préjudices Ainsi tu ressentiras ce que je ressens Et tu brûlera tout comme moi par le feu de la passion Dr Fouad Bouchareb Tous les droits sont réservés Inspiré d'un mawal de musique andalouse Le 01 janvier 2025

Test souvenirs 1303

Boucharfou, 4 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Fantasy -
1.2 min read.
Test souvenirs Rappelles toi de ce jardin De ses roses et ses jasmins Rappelles toi de notre balade autour du lac De nos rires sous la pluie et ses flaques Rappelles toi de nos vacances De nos musiques et nos danses Rappelles toi de nos victoires De nos défaites et nos déboires Rappelles toi de la Seine et de la Loire De nos promenades chaque soir Rappelles toi de nos rêves et nos cauchemars De nos douces nuits et de nos veillées si tard Rappelles toi de nos sorties nocturnes Et de nos escapades diurnes Rappelles toi de notre passé composé Et de notre train de vie surdosé Rappelles toi des vagues et de la plage Et de notre marche le long du rivage Rappelles toi du facteur et de mes écrits De mes rires et de mes cris Rappelles toi de la couleurs de mes yeux Du soleil radieux et du bleu des cieux Rappelles toi de nos études de médecine De l'anatomie et de la pénicilline Rappelles toi de nos blagues De nos tours joués et de nos gags Rappelles toi du printemps Des hirondelles et des passes-temps Rappelles toi de nos orages De nos colères et outrages Rappelles toi de l'école Des piquets et des colles Rappelles toi du lycée Des pantalons pattes d'éléphants et jupes plissées Qui faisaient carton Rappelles toi de la fac Des partiels et du track Rappelles toi de l'été et des petits jobs Des grandes chaleurs et quand je tu me snobe Rappelles toi de l'automne Et des airs qu'on fredonne Rappelles toi de la première cigarette De la fumée qu'on chassait de la maisonette Rappelles toi de la première idyle Chez la vieille Odile Rappelles toi de nos conneries Des bêtises et Âneries Rappelles toi de nos courses effrénées Des klaxons et des sirènes qu'on actionnait Rappelles toi quand on buvait du bourbon Et que devant les flics on soufflait dans le ballon Si tu te rappelles de tout ça Et que tu souris déjà C'est que tu as la mémoire claire Et que tu n'as pas Alzeihmer Dr Bouchareb Fouad Tous les droits sont réservés

The flower of my dreams 6396

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

C'est parceque je n'ai que toi 1290

Boucharfou, 4 mon.
- Music - Poetry - Romance -
0.9 min read.
C'est parce que je n'ai que toi Que tu rends mes nuits blanches? C'est parce que de ton amour je suis prisonnier Que ton comportement ne cesse de m'irriter? C'est parce que je n'ai que toi Depuis le premier jour Je reste insomniaque pour toujours? Même si j'ai essayé de t'oublier Je n'ai fait que rendre mon cœur sans raison et céder au feu de la passion Il accepte avec résignation Ô toi ma vie Ô toi mon cœur Toi qui n'aime que les larmes de mes yeux Toi qui préfère voir mes nuits blanches perdurer dans les ténèbres des cieux Et dans le noir des rues pour une énième...virée Ô toi amour Que j'adore et dont je prends soin chaque jour Malgré ton indifférence Et ton insouciance Mes chaudes larmes Chantent ma passion toute la nuit je la clame et c'est bien moi C'est parce que je n'ai que toi Oui mon amour, oui prunelle de mes yeux Je veux te voir et c'est mon vœu Un vœu pieux Restes un peu Quelques heures Quelques secondes Dans ma vie Ô toi ma vie C'est parce que je n'ai que toi Que tu me laisses sans nouvelles Sans écrits Sans paroles? Alors qu'à notre âge Le temps passe rapidement Et nos rêves s'envoleront sûrement Ô toi amour de ma vie Viendra un jour où on n'aura plus cette aubaine Viens pendant qu'il est encore temps Ô mon amour Viens pour profiter de la vie Je ne peux vivre et toujours attendre Je ferai ce que je peux Jusqu'à ce que tu veux Et tu reviendra peut-être un jour Parce que je n'ai que toi Dr Bouchareb Fouad Inspiré de la chanson de Farid Al Atrache > Agadir le 27 juillet 2022

Quand tu es au loin 1307

Boucharfou, 4 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
1.2 min read.
حصريا لأصحاب الذوق الرفيع. אך ורק למי שמעריך דברים טובים Exclusivement pour ceux qui apprécient les bonnes choses. Only for whom appreciate good things. exclusivamente para aquellos que aprecian las cosas buenas. ×××××××××××××××××××××××× أغنية راحلة , كلمات اغنية راحلة , اغاني سيدي محمد الحياني , كلمات الاغاني المغربية كلمات راحلة وأنت قريبة … قريبة أحن إليك Même quand tu es tout près je sens que tu es au loin et c'est vrai et que tu me manques très وأظمأ للعطر .. Et j'ai soif de ton beau parfum énivrant à la fin للشمس في وجنتيك J'ai soif partout et même de ce reflet doux du soleil sur tes joues وحين تغيبين Et quand tu n'es plus là يغرق قلبي في دمعاتي ويرحل صبحي .. Mon cœur fond dans ses larmes Et l'aurore devient crépuscule et drame تضيع حياتي ويشحب في أعيني الورد والدالية Ma vie se perd dans les méandres Et mes yeux pleines de larmes te pleurent وتبكي العصافير والساقية وهذا المساء .. Même les oiseaux par leurs chants te pleurent C'est vrai ce n'est pas un leurre de même que la rivière Et quand vient le soir وحمرته من لظى وجنتيك et ses reflets de rougeur sur tes joues يحادثني الصمت في مقلتيك Le silence de tes yeux qui éclairent les cieux Me parle d'amour et de passion Et te trahis à bonne escient ونظرتك الحلوة Et ton si doux regard الذابلة بأنك عن حينا راحلة Qui annonce ton départ me laisse pensif et hagard فهل يرحل الطيب من ورده Est-ce que le parfum peut abandonner ses roses? وهل يهرب الغصن من ظله ؟؟ Est-ce que la branche peut fuir son ombre ? أحقا كما ترحل شمس هذا المساء Comme nous lâche le soleil ce soir ? ترى ترحلين Dis, c'est vrai que tu me quittes à jamais ? C'est une escapade ou c'est une fuite? وفي لهفاتي ولحني الحزين Malgré mes cris malgré ma musique et ses aires tristes ? يموت انشراحي Je tombe dans la mélancolie تنوح جراحي وفي الحي .. Mes plaies saignent ainsi Je sombre dans l'alcool et son alchimie Et dans cette rue في كل درب سأرشف دمعي .. Dans chaque rue mes larmes couleront à vie سأعصر قلبي وأنت بعيدة.. Mon cœur se pince quand tu es si loin بعيدة لمن يا إلهة فني لمن سأغني ؟ À quoi à présent servirait mon art? Pour qui chanterai-je à présent à mon âge? J'ai bien peur que ça soit déjà trop tard Dr Bouchareb Fouad Paris Trocadéro le 28 Mai 2016 Tous les droits sont réservés

Pigeon 6672

Boucharfou, 4 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 ❤️ 6850

Boucharfou, 4 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 6588

Boucharfou, 4 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