M. L. (by James Munro)

[Written on the death of a friend when I lived in Casablanca, many years ago …]

For some today the worry and the work
go on, the weariness, and then for some the wine.
For some the wonder of it all perhaps.
But not for you. For some today
there will be no tomorrow.
For you there’s no today.
In the tatty sun-split Spanish streets
behind the Institute,
the anger and the laughter and the tears
build up once more;
soon they’ll fade with evening.
Lalla Yacout in the twilight:
Arabs throng and fight for space, a place
on the old French buses, hanging from doors and windows,
then are gone. Night falls. For most
the sun will rise again, but not for you.

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