scirocco

it dries the tears it brings to our eyes
and draws the moisture from leaves

the wind-scoured streets shiver in the bright dry air
concrements crumble from overgrown walls

bright smoke drifts across the valley from foothills
and ash colours white shawls held over faces

a street trader silently offers his last fruit for sale
when evening comes he'll give it as a gift to the gutter

Dominique B. Renard translated by Catherine Hales