The Tribulations of Fatima de France



My hair is flying free,
liberated from the veil

A freedom
that’s imposed on me …
a jail



A freedom without choice,
a slimy web
in which if trapped
--although unveiled--
we die


The liberties on which this land was built
now suffocate, like birds aching to fly:

To paint the cage grass-green won’t make a field

The bars, though colored blue, are not the sky



The Bastille walls are rising once again

A shameless night is drowning all the stars


Whip me
in the courtyard of the

Crucify me on the plain at “Champ-de-Mars”



February 16, 2004