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 Elysée

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

 

 

February 16, 2004