Al Sol Del Mediodía

The midday sun
over the capital
puts a Middle Eastern heat
on the peripheral road
the long caravan
of cars waiting
for the one in front to move
yes, to keep going
in this endless line
that goes on.
suddenly reminded me of the city
where Ali Baba lives.

The cars stop
I wait for a long time
I look around and feel
my shoe burning,
the beauty in front
combing her hair
and the old man to my left
making a camel face
and on the radio, my favorite announcer
says: love, what heat.

Oh! brother, brother what heat
it is on the peripheral road
when the sun melts it
the smoke from the cars' exhaust
that I breathe
floods my head
and I am a victim of mirages.
The poles are palm trees,
the streets sand dunes
and they are divided by ivory lines.
Oh! Jalil

I see mysterious faces
among the drivers
that hide more secrets
than a den of thieves,
mysterious flute tunes
that would make a worm dance
beware of the one with the face
of a hashish smoker.

Because there are merchants there
offering convenient
and exotic objects and scents
from the Middle East,
and here the merchants
sell abundant
goods and contraband
from their mobile stalls
amidst this smell
and people walking
under the sun,
under the sun.

Oh! brother,
brother what heat,
it is on the peripheral road
when the sun melts it,
the cars don't move
and I feel the dry breath,
I can't stand the clothes,
the wait, or the seat.
The long caravan
of cars waiting
for the one in front to move,
yes, to keep going
and slowly climbing
the concrete dunes,
the Friday traffic
and the heat of the pavement
in these April days.