My dreams of Marrakech

Are red and brown and gold.

Filled with dust and old.

Tight streets and cobbled roads,

Well worthy of this ode.

 

My dreams of Marrakech

Are crimson and copper.

Shoulder to shoulder,

Lost in a bazaar.

Bronze light from golden lanterns.

And an uncle with a cigar.

 

My dreams of Marrakech

Are of an old man under his umbrella.

Selling peppery paprika and copper cumin.

Sticks of cinnamon and roots of ginger.

He sells golden turmeric and fragrant saffron.

 

My dreams of Marrakech

Are of a grandmother selling fruit.

Bright pomegranates, crisp apples, dried apricots,

wilted dates, and plump figs.

Stacked on gleaming brass and arranged

Into perfect mounds.

 

My dreams of Marrakech

Are rosy and fresh.

They’re wrapped in a silver scarf

And chapped like bone-dry lips.

I’ve never been one to resist.

I can’t help but dream of a morocco,

That doesn’t exist.