The man with freckles

This place you say you love so much, it’s honey, you say.

Stars, incense, sunshine sweet like honey, you say.

This dream you think you know,

How does it end?

 

You say nectar, and you say lust. Sweet mediterranean honey.

How you mix Beirut, Sanaa and Tangier. All the same isn’t it, honey?

Jasmine and AK-47, you make a place I’d love to see!

So many thing you say you see, but sometimes it’s like you don’t see me 😦

 

You do fantasize me well but I don’t care for myrrh or mint tea.

Agraba is not real, I’m real!

I’m eating pasta, not spices nor honey, and I’m waiting.

 

I’m waiting for the stories to end, for your Arabia to die.

For the novelty to fade out, for clichés to run dry.

I should have left long ago but I’m waiting.

 

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