It was a dimly wavering path,
In which flied one fortunate moth,
The sun happened to be only a dot,
Standing on a ground purely hollow;
Sometimes I would be greeted by a rainbow,
Most of times I would not.
Shallow thoughts of leaving often dwelled,
But by an appeasing smile they were barreled.
A faint rain fell little by little,
As I looked into your eyes that reflected a riddle.
Was the foreordained tempest the reason ?
Or the deed of a coward’s treason ?
At the end of a day burdened with ire,
That blinding light
Was to my greatest fright,
My future on fire.
by Fatima Boumaiza