The Radiance of a Lady
6404
Your love illuminates my heart,
And you have forbidden me to reveal this honor.
How can the light of your brilliance be dimmed
When it radiates from everywhere?
It shines like a sapphire,
a diamond, or a jewel,
And dazzles everyone
with your blonde beauty.
You do not believe in my love,
In turn,
While I can love no one else but you;
This is my destiny, this is my faith.
You are my heart and my soul,
You are my destiny, you are my law.
I cannot bear it when you are far away, beautiful woman,
You who soothe my heart in flames.
In you, I find all my vows,
You who make my days happy.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
Inspired by an Andalusian music piece, "Bassit Ibahane"
December 13, 2025
https://youtu.be/wlvhOVGyLek?si=5tt6cm0oChF1NQJJ
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The Radiance of a Lady
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https://bluwr.com/p/631406402
The Movie of My Life
5926
I have lived among the Wealthy
I have walked alongside the Poor
I have approached those without a home.
I have challenged intellectuals and faced the illiterate.
My past was surely atypical, often tumultuous, but fantastic—
At times extravagant, at others, wretched.
With highs and lows,
And riddled with missteps.
Full of exploits,
A source of satisfaction and joy.
I never let anyone dictate their law to me;
I was always that rebel,
Mixing courage with zeal.
I have faced dead ends,
Bearing scars and traces
That could have been fatal.
Fortunately, I made it through miraculously, against all odds.
I have known the joy of encounters
And the sadness of partings, again and again.
But I am proud of what I have undertaken so far,
Even if my work seems unfinished.
The time I have left to live
Bodes for a promising future.
I remain attentive to thoughts,
Filling my days with jokes and laughter.
I stay serene and confident, for the best is yet to come.
Helping my neighbor helps me hold on
And gives meaning to my life.
Listening to people,
Understanding their setbacks,
Solving problems and giving hope
Is, for me, the definition of joy.
At the twilight of my life,
And at my age now,
I would not change my style or my way of life for anything in the world.
Otherwise, I would no longer be who I am,
And that would be a betrayal of this "dog of a life" of mine.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
Inspired by a text from my Master, Pr. Hakam Tazi Moukha
January 20, 2024
All rights reserved
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The Movie of My Life
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https://bluwr.com/p/630481113
The Radiance of a Lady
5551
Your love illuminates my heart,
And you have forbidden me to reveal this honor.
How can the light of your brilliance be dimmed
When it radiates from everywhere?
It shines like a sapphire,
a diamond, or a jewel,
And dazzles everyone
with your blonde beauty.
You do not believe in my love,
In turn,
While I can love no one else but you;
This is my destiny, this is my faith.
You are my heart and my soul,
You are my destiny, you are my law.
I cannot bear it when you are far away, beautiful woman,
You who soothe my heart in flames.
In you, I find all my vows,
You who make my days happy.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
Inspired by an Andalusian music piece, "Bassit Ibahane"
December 13, 2025
https://youtu.be/wlvhOVGyLek?si=5tt6cm0oChF1NQJJ
Share:
The Radiance of a Lady
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/629663420
The Radiance of a Lady
5825
Your love illuminates my heart,
And you have forbidden me to reveal this honor.
How can the light of your brilliance be dimmed
When it radiates from everywhere?
It shines like a sapphire,
a diamond, or a jewel,
And dazzles everyone
with your blonde beauty.
You do not believe in my love,
In turn,
While I can love no one else but you;
This is my destiny, this is my faith.
You are my heart and my soul,
You are my destiny, you are my law.
I cannot bear it when you are far away, beautiful woman,
You who soothe my heart in flames.
In you, I find all my vows,
You who make my days happy.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
Inspired by an Andalusian music piece, "Bassit Ibahane"
December 13, 2025
https://youtu.be/wlvhOVGyLek?si=5tt6cm0oChF1NQJJ
Share:
The Radiance of a Lady
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/604268973
The Radiance of a Lady
5838
Your love illuminates my heart,
And you have forbidden me to reveal this honor.
How can the light of your brilliance be dimmed
When it radiates from everywhere?
It shines like a sapphire,
a diamond, or a jewel,
And dazzles everyone
with your blonde beauty.
You do not believe in my love,
In turn,
While I can love no one else but you;
This is my destiny, this is my faith.
You are my heart and my soul,
You are my destiny, you are my law.
I cannot bear it when you are far away, beautiful woman,
You who soothe my heart in flames.
In you, I find all my vows,
You who make my days happy.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
Inspired by an Andalusian music piece, "Bassit Ibahane"
December 13, 2025
https://youtu.be/wlvhOVGyLek?si=5tt6cm0oChF1NQJJ
Share:
The Radiance of a Lady
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/584995056
The Radiance of a Lady
5342
Your love illuminates my heart,
And you have forbidden me to reveal this honor.
How can the light of your brilliance be dimmed
When it radiates from everywhere?
It shines like a sapphire,
a diamond, or a jewel,
And dazzles everyone
with your blonde beauty.
You do not believe in my love,
In turn,
While I can love no one else but you;
This is my destiny, this is my faith.
You are my heart and my soul,
You are my destiny, you are my law.
I cannot bear it when you are far away, beautiful woman,
You who soothe my heart in flames.
In you, I find all my vows,
You who make my days happy.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
Inspired by an Andalusian music piece, "Bassit Ibahane"
December 13, 2025
https://youtu.be/wlvhOVGyLek?si=5tt6cm0oChF1NQJJ
Share:
The Radiance of a Lady
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/583246149
The Radiance of a Lady
5343
Your love illuminates my heart,
And you have forbidden me to reveal this honor.
How can the light of your brilliance be dimmed
When it radiates from everywhere?
It shines like a sapphire,
a diamond, or a jewel,
And dazzles everyone
with your blonde beauty.
You do not believe in my love,
In turn,
While I can love no one else but you;
This is my destiny, this is my faith.
You are my heart and my soul,
You are my destiny, you are my law.
I cannot bear it when you are far away, beautiful woman,
You who soothe my heart in flames.
In you, I find all my vows,
You who make my days happy.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
Inspired by an Andalusian music piece, "Bassit Ibahane"
December 13, 2025
https://youtu.be/wlvhOVGyLek?si=5tt6cm0oChF1NQJJ
Share:
The Radiance of a Lady
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/582699127
Kaftan Evening (Soirée Kaftan)
4994
In a Kaftan evening's glow,
Colors compete in vibrant show,
And tales of ancient times they sow.
They blend within the multi-hue,
Granting the festivity its view.
The lovely ladies each embrace their dance,
To music's rhythm that puts them in a trance.
Each region of Morocco, for its kaftan, must innovate,
The Sefrioui kaftan, adorned with cherries, is great.
It pleases me and makes my head spin,
The Queen of Cherries is full of grace,
She is beautiful, she has class.
The yellow Fassi kaftan is sublime,
The pink Marrakchi kaftan is intimate.
The green Oujdi kaftan is simply top-tier,
The red Meknassi kaftan extremely pleases me here.
The multicolored Berber kaftan leaves me dreaming and pale,
The beige Soussi kaftan I adore and hail.
The Sahraoui sky-blue kaftan seduces me as well,
The Rifian royal blue kaftan charms like a spell.
The red and green Casablanca kaftan is magical,
The Rbati kaftan is fantastical.
The white Tetouani kaftan is lordly and grand,
The pistachio Tangerois kaftan brings emotion to the land.
The Chefchaouni kaftan leaves me astounded and mute,
The Moroccan kaftan is simply royal in its pursuit.
The Safi sky-blue kaftan is very beautiful,
From Tangier to Lagouira,
It perpetuates since the dawn of time the style of a tailoring, a witness to a great culture's spring,
Whose secret and honor only the Cherifian Kingdom keeps,
To the great dismay of the envious and the thieves.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
All rights reserved
December 11, 2025
Share:
Kaftan Evening (Soirée Kaftan)
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/578305291
Kaftan Evening (Soirée Kaftan)
4991
In a Kaftan evening's glow,
Colors compete in vibrant show,
And tales of ancient times they sow.
They blend within the multi-hue,
Granting the festivity its view.
The lovely ladies each embrace their dance,
To music's rhythm that puts them in a trance.
Each region of Morocco, for its kaftan, must innovate,
The Sefrioui kaftan, adorned with cherries, is great.
It pleases me and makes my head spin,
The Queen of Cherries is full of grace,
She is beautiful, she has class.
The yellow Fassi kaftan is sublime,
The pink Marrakchi kaftan is intimate.
The green Oujdi kaftan is simply top-tier,
The red Meknassi kaftan extremely pleases me here.
The multicolored Berber kaftan leaves me dreaming and pale,
The beige Soussi kaftan I adore and hail.
The Sahraoui sky-blue kaftan seduces me as well,
The Rifian royal blue kaftan charms like a spell.
The red and green Casablanca kaftan is magical,
The Rbati kaftan is fantastical.
The white Tetouani kaftan is lordly and grand,
The pistachio Tangerois kaftan brings emotion to the land.
The Chefchaouni kaftan leaves me astounded and mute,
The Moroccan kaftan is simply royal in its pursuit.
The Safi sky-blue kaftan is very beautiful,
From Tangier to Lagouira,
It perpetuates since the dawn of time the style of a tailoring, a witness to a great culture's spring,
Whose secret and honor only the Cherifian Kingdom keeps,
To the great dismay of the envious and the thieves.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
All rights reserved
December 11, 2025
Share:
Kaftan Evening (Soirée Kaftan)
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/577677936
Kaftan Evening (Soirée Kaftan
4815
)
In a Kaftan evening's glow,
Colors compete in vibrant show,
And tales of ancient times they sow.
They blend within the multi-hue,
Granting the festivity its view.
The lovely ladies each embrace their dance,
To music's rhythm that puts them in a trance.
Each region of Morocco, for its kaftan, must innovate,
The Sefrioui kaftan, adorned with cherries, is great.
It pleases me and makes my head spin,
The Queen of Cherries is full of grace,
She is beautiful, she has class.
The yellow Fassi kaftan is sublime,
The pink Marrakchi kaftan is intimate.
The green Oujdi kaftan is simply top-tier,
The red Meknassi kaftan extremely pleases me here.
The multicolored Berber kaftan leaves me dreaming and pale,
The beige Soussi kaftan I adore and hail.
The Sahraoui sky-blue kaftan seduces me as well,
The Rifian royal blue kaftan charms like a spell.
The red and green Casablanca kaftan is magical,
The Rbati kaftan is fantastical.
The white Tetouani kaftan is lordly and grand,
The pistachio Tangerois kaftan brings emotion to the land.
The Chefchaouni kaftan leaves me astounded and mute,
The Moroccan kaftan is simply royal in its pursuit.
The Safi sky-blue kaftan is very beautiful,
From Tangier to Lagouira,
It perpetuates since the dawn of time the style of a tailoring, a witness to a great culture's spring,
Whose secret and honor only the Cherifian Kingdom keeps,
To the great dismay of the envious and the thieves.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
All rights reserved
December 11, 2025
Share:
Kaftan Evening (Soirée Kaftan
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/577669209
My five witnesses of love
5147
Of this love that I have for you I have five witnesses:
My frail body which has lost its plumpness!
My hot tears despite your good care!!
My hands that tremble when you are far away!!!
My poor heart beating very hard in its little corner!!!!
And the hope of meeting you, one day, a few minutes…. at least !!!!!
Dr Fouad Bouchareb
All rights are protected
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My five witnesses of love
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/570373129
My Father's Pen
4716
I have known it since I was young. My late father, then a school principal, gave me my first pen when I passed my primary school certificate in June 1966, to replace my dip pen, penholder, and inkwell.
He taught me how to hold it between my thumb and index finger and how to improve my handwriting in both Arabic and French.
He taught me to choose the best verb, the best sentence to express my feelings and reveal my emotions of the moment. He instilled in me the art of juggling with the taxonomy of verbs and, subsequently, the choice of the best tense for conjugating them. He never stopped repeating to me that the solemnity of the moment required a faithful reflection of the recount of events, whether actually experienced or imagined. He taught me to reflect on what I was going to write before drafting and consulting.
He had the art and manner of transmitting his knowledge to me with passion and love. He took all the time for this patiently, never reprimanding me for a spelling mistake or when I rolled my Rs. He knew that by doing so, he succeeded in setting me on the right path for drafting, narration, pronunciation, and written and oral expression.
I often used to lock myself in my studio, which was located in the garden of our staff housing at the Sidi Amr school in Meknes.
This is how I began to write short stories, poems, and even love letters to an imaginary beloved.
I also kept my personal diary.
My French teacher in the first year, called the observation class, at Moulay Ismail High School, Mr. Rossetti, encouraged me to write.
My pen was a precious tool for me, allowing me to express everything I felt at that time of my life. For me, it was a way not only to entertain myself but also to consolidate a gift for writing and composing poems. My father supervised what I produced in writing from a distance and had the art and manner of correcting my essays while encouraging me to move forward.
My "vocabulary" capital grew day by day.
I had gotten into the habit of writing in one go, without resorting to a draft.
Now that I am nearing seventy, I continue to write with a disconcerting ease that surprises those around me.
For me, there is nothing surprising, because I possess genes transmitted by my father, an outstanding teacher and school principal who officiated for more than forty years and who, like me and my brothers and sisters, trained hundreds and hundreds of students.
May he rest in peace and know that his pen is in good hands.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
All rights reserved
November 27, 2025
Share:
My Father's Pen
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/558759552
My Father's Pen
4516
I have known it since I was young. My late father, then a school principal, gave me my first pen when I passed my primary school certificate in June 1966, to replace my dip pen, penholder, and inkwell.
He taught me how to hold it between my thumb and index finger and how to improve my handwriting in both Arabic and French.
He taught me to choose the best verb, the best sentence to express my feelings and reveal my emotions of the moment. He instilled in me the art of juggling with the taxonomy of verbs and, subsequently, the choice of the best tense for conjugating them. He never stopped repeating to me that the solemnity of the moment required a faithful reflection of the recount of events, whether actually experienced or imagined. He taught me to reflect on what I was going to write before drafting and consulting.
He had the art and manner of transmitting his knowledge to me with passion and love. He took all the time for this patiently, never reprimanding me for a spelling mistake or when I rolled my Rs. He knew that by doing so, he succeeded in setting me on the right path for drafting, narration, pronunciation, and written and oral expression.
I often used to lock myself in my studio, which was located in the garden of our staff housing at the Sidi Amr school in Meknes.
This is how I began to write short stories, poems, and even love letters to an imaginary beloved.
I also kept my personal diary.
My French teacher in the first year, called the observation class, at Moulay Ismail High School, Mr. Rossetti, encouraged me to write.
My pen was a precious tool for me, allowing me to express everything I felt at that time of my life. For me, it was a way not only to entertain myself but also to consolidate a gift for writing and composing poems. My father supervised what I produced in writing from a distance and had the art and manner of correcting my essays while encouraging me to move forward.
My "vocabulary" capital grew day by day.
I had gotten into the habit of writing in one go, without resorting to a draft.
Now that I am nearing seventy, I continue to write with a disconcerting ease that surprises those around me.
For me, there is nothing surprising, because I possess genes transmitted by my father, an outstanding teacher and school principal who officiated for more than forty years and who, like me and my brothers and sisters, trained hundreds and hundreds of students.
May he rest in peace and know that his pen is in good hands.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
All rights reserved
November 27, 2025
Share:
My Father's Pen
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/558239532
My Father's Pen
4675
I have known it since I was young. My late father, then a school principal, gave me my first pen when I passed my primary school certificate in June 1966, to replace my dip pen, penholder, and inkwell.
He taught me how to hold it between my thumb and index finger and how to improve my handwriting in both Arabic and French.
He taught me to choose the best verb, the best sentence to express my feelings and reveal my emotions of the moment. He instilled in me the art of juggling with the taxonomy of verbs and, subsequently, the choice of the best tense for conjugating them. He never stopped repeating to me that the solemnity of the moment required a faithful reflection of the recount of events, whether actually experienced or imagined. He taught me to reflect on what I was going to write before drafting and consulting.
He had the art and manner of transmitting his knowledge to me with passion and love. He took all the time for this patiently, never reprimanding me for a spelling mistake or when I rolled my Rs. He knew that by doing so, he succeeded in setting me on the right path for drafting, narration, pronunciation, and written and oral expression.
I often used to lock myself in my studio, which was located in the garden of our staff housing at the Sidi Amr school in Meknes.
This is how I began to write short stories, poems, and even love letters to an imaginary beloved.
I also kept my personal diary.
My French teacher in the first year, called the observation class, at Moulay Ismail High School, Mr. Rossetti, encouraged me to write.
My pen was a precious tool for me, allowing me to express everything I felt at that time of my life. For me, it was a way not only to entertain myself but also to consolidate a gift for writing and composing poems. My father supervised what I produced in writing from a distance and had the art and manner of correcting my essays while encouraging me to move forward.
My "vocabulary" capital grew day by day.
I had gotten into the habit of writing in one go, without resorting to a draft.
Now that I am nearing seventy, I continue to write with a disconcerting ease that surprises those around me.
For me, there is nothing surprising, because I possess genes transmitted by my father, an outstanding teacher and school principal who officiated for more than forty years and who, like me and my brothers and sisters, trained hundreds and hundreds of students.
May he rest in peace and know that his pen is in good hands.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
All rights reserved
November 27, 2025
Share:
My Father's Pen
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/558137766
My Father's Pen
4653
I have known it since I was young. My late father, then a school principal, gave me my first pen when I passed my primary school certificate in June 1966, to replace my dip pen, penholder, and inkwell.
He taught me how to hold it between my thumb and index finger and how to improve my handwriting in both Arabic and French.
He taught me to choose the best verb, the best sentence to express my feelings and reveal my emotions of the moment. He instilled in me the art of juggling with the taxonomy of verbs and, subsequently, the choice of the best tense for conjugating them. He never stopped repeating to me that the solemnity of the moment required a faithful reflection of the recount of events, whether actually experienced or imagined. He taught me to reflect on what I was going to write before drafting and consulting.
He had the art and manner of transmitting his knowledge to me with passion and love. He took all the time for this patiently, never reprimanding me for a spelling mistake or when I rolled my Rs. He knew that by doing so, he succeeded in setting me on the right path for drafting, narration, pronunciation, and written and oral expression.
I often used to lock myself in my studio, which was located in the garden of our staff housing at the Sidi Amr school in Meknes.
This is how I began to write short stories, poems, and even love letters to an imaginary beloved.
I also kept my personal diary.
My French teacher in the first year, called the observation class, at Moulay Ismail High School, Mr. Rossetti, encouraged me to write.
My pen was a precious tool for me, allowing me to express everything I felt at that time of my life. For me, it was a way not only to entertain myself but also to consolidate a gift for writing and composing poems. My father supervised what I produced in writing from a distance and had the art and manner of correcting my essays while encouraging me to move forward.
My "vocabulary" capital grew day by day.
I had gotten into the habit of writing in one go, without resorting to a draft.
Now that I am nearing seventy, I continue to write with a disconcerting ease that surprises those around me.
For me, there is nothing surprising, because I possess genes transmitted by my father, an outstanding teacher and school principal who officiated for more than forty years and who, like me and my brothers and sisters, trained hundreds and hundreds of students.
May he rest in peace and know that his pen is in good hands.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
All rights reserved
November 27, 2025
Share:
My Father's Pen
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/557880158
My father's pen
4552
I have known it since my young age. My late father, then a school principal, offered me my first pen when I passed my primary school certificate in June 1966. He thus taught me how to hold it between my thumb and index finger and to improve my handwriting in both Arabic and French.
I often used to lock myself in my studio, which was located in the garden of our official residence at the Sidi Amr school in Meknes.
This is how I started writing short stories, poems, and even love letters to an imaginary beloved.
I also kept my personal diary.
My French teacher in the first year, called the observation class, at Moulay Ismail High School, Mr. Rossetti, encouraged me to write.
My pen was a precious tool for me, allowing me to express everything I felt at that time in my life. It was a way for me not only to entertain myself but also to consolidate a gift for writing and composing poems. My father supervised my writings from a distance and had the art and manner of correcting my essays while encouraging me to move forward.
My "vocabulary" capital was enriched day after day.
I had acquired the habit, to this day, of writing in a single draft without resorting to a rough copy.
Now that I am close to seventy years old, I continue to write with a disconcerting ease that surprises those around me.
For me, this is not surprising because I possess genes transmitted by my father, an outstanding teacher and school principal who officiated for more than forty years and who, like me and my brothers and sisters, trained hundreds and hundreds of students.
May he rest in peace and may he know that his pen is in good hands.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
All rights reserved
November 27, 2025
Share:
My father's pen
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/556354050
✍️ My Father's Pen
4141
I have known it since my young age. My late father, then a school director, gave me my first pen when I successfully passed my primary school leaving certificate in June 1966. He taught me how to hold it between my thumb and forefinger and how to improve my handwriting, both in Arabic and in French.
He taught me to choose the best verb, the best sentence to express what I felt and to reveal my emotions of the moment. He instilled in me the art of juggling with the taxonomy of verbs and subsequently choosing the best tense for conjugating them. He never stopped repeating to me that the solemnity of the moment required faithfully reflecting the narrative of events truly experienced or imagined. He taught me to think about what I was going to write before drafting and consulting.
He had the art and the manner of transmitting his knowledge to me with passion and love. He patiently took all the time for this without ever reprimanding me for a spelling mistake or when I rolled my R's. He knew that this way he succeeded in putting me on the right track for drafting, narration, pronunciation, and written and oral expression.
I often locked myself in my studio, which was in the garden of our official residence at the Sidi Amr school in Meknes. This is how I began to write small stories, poems, and even love letters to an imaginary sweetheart. I also kept my personal diary.
My French teacher in the first year, called the observation class, at Moulay Ismail high school, Mr. Rossetti, encouraged me to write. My pen was a precious tool for me that allowed me to express everything I felt at that time in my life. It was for me a way not only to distract myself but also to consolidate a gift for writing and composing poems. My father supervised what I produced in writing from a distance and had the art and the manner of correcting my essays while encouraging me to move forward. My "vocabulary" capital grew day by day. I had gotten into the habit, to this day, of writing in one go without resorting to a draft.
Now that I am nearing seventy, I continue to write with a disconcerting ease that surprises those around me. For me, nothing is astonishing, because I possess genes transmitted by my father, an unparalleled teacher and school director who officiated for over forty years and who, like me and my brothers and sisters, trained hundreds and hundreds of students.
May he rest in peace and know that his pen is in good hands.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
All rights reserved
November 27, 2025
Share:
✍️ My Father's Pen
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/554677286
My father's pen
4127
I have known it since my young age. My late father, then a school principal, offered me my first pen when I passed my primary school certificate in June 1966. He thus taught me how to hold it between my thumb and index finger and to improve my handwriting in both Arabic and French.
I often used to lock myself in my studio, which was located in the garden of our official residence at the Sidi Amr school in Meknes.
This is how I started writing short stories, poems, and even love letters to an imaginary beloved.
I also kept my personal diary.
My French teacher in the first year, called the observation class, at Moulay Ismail High School, Mr. Rossetti, encouraged me to write.
My pen was a precious tool for me, allowing me to express everything I felt at that time in my life. It was a way for me not only to entertain myself but also to consolidate a gift for writing and composing poems. My father supervised my writings from a distance and had the art and manner of correcting my essays while encouraging me to move forward.
My "vocabulary" capital was enriched day after day.
I had acquired the habit, to this day, of writing in a single draft without resorting to a rough copy.
Now that I am close to seventy years old, I continue to write with a disconcerting ease that surprises those around me.
For me, this is not surprising because I possess genes transmitted by my father, an outstanding teacher and school principal who officiated for more than forty years and who, like me and my brothers and sisters, trained hundreds and hundreds of students.
May he rest in peace and may he know that his pen is in good hands.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
All rights reserved
November 27, 2025
Share:
My father's pen
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/552382329
My father's pen
4136
I have known it since my young age. My late father, then a school principal, offered me my first pen when I passed my primary school certificate in June 1966. He thus taught me how to hold it between my thumb and index finger and to improve my handwriting in both Arabic and French.
I often used to lock myself in my studio, which was located in the garden of our official residence at the Sidi Amr school in Meknes.
This is how I started writing short stories, poems, and even love letters to an imaginary beloved.
I also kept my personal diary.
My French teacher in the first year, called the observation class, at Moulay Ismail High School, Mr. Rossetti, encouraged me to write.
My pen was a precious tool for me, allowing me to express everything I felt at that time in my life. It was a way for me not only to entertain myself but also to consolidate a gift for writing and composing poems. My father supervised my writings from a distance and had the art and manner of correcting my essays while encouraging me to move forward.
My "vocabulary" capital was enriched day after day.
I had acquired the habit, to this day, of writing in a single draft without resorting to a rough copy.
Now that I am close to seventy years old, I continue to write with a disconcerting ease that surprises those around me.
For me, this is not surprising because I possess genes transmitted by my father, an outstanding teacher and school principal who officiated for more than forty years and who, like me and my brothers and sisters, trained hundreds and hundreds of students.
May he rest in peace and may he know that his pen is in good hands.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
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November 27, 2025
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My father's pen
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My father's pen
4021
I have known it since my young age. My late father, then a school principal, offered me my first pen when I passed my primary school certificate in June 1966. He thus taught me how to hold it between my thumb and index finger and to improve my handwriting in both Arabic and French.
I often used to lock myself in my studio, which was located in the garden of our official residence at the Sidi Amr school in Meknes.
This is how I started writing short stories, poems, and even love letters to an imaginary beloved.
I also kept my personal diary.
My French teacher in the first year, called the observation class, at Moulay Ismail High School, Mr. Rossetti, encouraged me to write.
My pen was a precious tool for me, allowing me to express everything I felt at that time in my life. It was a way for me not only to entertain myself but also to consolidate a gift for writing and composing poems. My father supervised my writings from a distance and had the art and manner of correcting my essays while encouraging me to move forward.
My "vocabulary" capital was enriched day after day.
I had acquired the habit, to this day, of writing in a single draft without resorting to a rough copy.
Now that I am close to seventy years old, I continue to write with a disconcerting ease that surprises those around me.
For me, this is not surprising because I possess genes transmitted by my father, an outstanding teacher and school principal who officiated for more than forty years and who, like me and my brothers and sisters, trained hundreds and hundreds of students.
May he rest in peace and may he know that his pen is in good hands.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
All rights reserved
November 27, 2025
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My father's pen
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https://bluwr.com/p/552373679
Reflection
4004
🧘 Reflection
Throughout my life, what I ignored as covetousness came to me willingly, without effort.
And everything I sought to possess ultimately slipped away from me, despite reinforcements.
Life only shows its generosity towards the one who doesn't care and goes without,
It humiliates the one who clings to it and holds on relentlessly.
The fire that burns the soul is soothed and eventually extinguished by detachment...
So detach yourself, for the one who lets go easily ends up possessing.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
November 24, 2025
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Reflection
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Reflection
4044
🧘 Reflection
Throughout my life, what I ignored as covetousness came to me willingly, without effort.
And everything I sought to possess ultimately slipped away from me, despite reinforcements.
Life only shows its generosity towards the one who doesn't care and goes without,
It humiliates the one who clings to it and holds on relentlessly.
The fire that burns the soul is soothed and eventually extinguished by detachment...
So detach yourself, for the one who lets go easily ends up possessing.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
November 24, 2025
All rights reserved
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Reflection
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🖍️ Colouring
4006
I left my time
And I was quite happy about it
to rejoin the past
in order to snoop around
to better understand my destiny
deep in my subconscious
everything I wanted to reach without being able to:
the list was truly exhaustive
I left my time
And I was quite happy about it
despite the hazards and the drifts
I wanted to sort things out
in my life
when suddenly bewildered
and without warning
I had the idea
of choosing coloured pencils
which were a sham in my previous life
because they were beyond my means in primary school!!!
I was conscious but reckless
I simply wanted to learn to decorate my world
to colour abstract shapes, square or round
to flee this unbearable daily life!!!
I left my time
And I was quite happy about it
To draw the moon in black, the sky in red;
To freeze time and everything that moves
To put horns on my donkey
Just to embellish its skull!!!!
to draw many flowers 🌺
on my bedroom door.
I left my time
And I was quite happy about it
All this really made sense to me.
And I thought about it with emotion
Today that I have the coloured pencils
a reality and not a sham
the desire has suddenly evaporated
and my dream is not realised
the inspiration is no longer there
Alas, I no longer dream....
Dr Fouad Bouchareb
Tuesday, March 26, 2019
@à la une
#Laune
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🖍️ Colouring
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Reflection
4245
Throughout my life, what I ignored as covetousness came to me willingly, without effort.
And everything I sought to possess ultimately slipped away from me, despite reinforcements.
Life only shows its generosity towards the one who doesn't care and goes without,
It humiliates the one who clings to it and holds on relentlessly.
The fire that burns the soul is soothed and eventually extinguished by detachment...
So detach yourself, for the one who lets go easily ends up possessing.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
November 24, 2025
All rights reserved
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Reflection
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Reflection
4359
🧘
Throughout my life, what I ignored as covetousness came to me willingly, without effort.
And everything I sought to possess ultimately slipped away from me, despite reinforcements.
Life only shows its generosity towards the one who doesn't care and goes without,
It humiliates the one who clings to it and holds on relentlessly.
The fire that burns the soul is soothed and eventually extinguished by detachment...
So detach yourself, for the one who lets go easily ends up possessing.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
November 24, 2025
All rights reserved
Share:
Reflection
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/543755207
Reflection
4375
Throughout my life, what I ignored as covetousness came to me willingly, without effort.
And everything I sought to possess ultimately slipped away from me, despite reinforcements.
Life only shows its generosity towards the one who doesn't care and goes without,
It humiliates the one who clings to it and holds on relentlessly.
The fire that burns the soul is soothed and eventually extinguished by detachment...
So detach yourself, for the one who lets go easily ends up possessing.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
November 24, 2025
All rights reserved
Share:
Reflection
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/543734308
Reflection
4192
🧘
Throughout my life, what I ignored as covetousness came to me willingly, without effort.
And everything I sought to possess ultimately slipped away from me, despite reinforcements.
Life only shows its generosity towards the one who doesn't care and goes without,
It humiliates the one who clings to it and holds on relentlessly.
The fire that burns the soul is soothed and eventually extinguished by detachment...
So detach yourself, for the one who lets go easily ends up possessing.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
November 24, 2025
All rights reserved
Share:
Reflection
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/543567510
Reflection
4247
🧘
Throughout my life, what I ignored as covetousness came to me willingly, without effort.
And everything I sought to possess ultimately slipped away from me, despite reinforcements.
Life only shows its generosity towards the one who doesn't care and goes without,
It humiliates the one who clings to it and holds on relentlessly.
The fire that burns the soul is soothed and eventually extinguished by detachment...
So detach yourself, for the one who lets go easily ends up possessing.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
November 24, 2025
All rights reserved
Share:
Reflection
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/543563687
