Moroccan Mist

Thistledowns put to fly in my heart, though my wind is toujour still. The green bhang stands high, so greenward it is. My flurries mount my hills, rising from my 'avoir être,' which is now lapidé. The ground is parched and torid, baked is the fusty sod. And, the pollen that the contrebandiers smoke, up it goes, up in fumée. Surrounding fields greeny, ils se balancient indeed. Gossamers twitter, flung afar, from nabb'at almariajwana to nabb'at almariajwana. Lost bents have now returned. The distant hills are topped like with copper and sway in the wind. And the water we drink, from la source d'eau, hints turquoise as it flows. Below runs a stream soft, passing by its stones and boulders and I have tried counting each and every one, one by one, as I hotfooted over them. Above, liquid sapphire is the sky. And whoever looks round these environs sees here peace in these the Rif mountains.

View davebucko's Full Portfolio