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  • The Brooch
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The Brooch

Mririda n’Ait Attik

Grandmother, grandmother,
Since he left I think only of him
And I see him everywhere
He gave me a fine silver brooch
And when I adjust my haїk on my shoulders,
When I hook its flap over my breasts,
When I take it off at night to sleep,
It’s not the brooch I see, but him!

My granddaughter, throw away the brooch.
You will forget him and your suffering will be over.

Grandmother, it’s over a month since I threw it away,
But it cut deeply into my hand.
I can’t take my eyes off the red scar:
When I wash, when I spin, when I drink—
And my thoughts still are of him!

My granddaughter, may Allah heal your pain!
The scar is not on your hand, but in your heart.


Mririda n’Ait Attik

from Bending the Bow: an anthology of African love poetry, edited by Frank M. Chipasula (United States: Southern Illinois University Press, 2009)

translated by Daniel Halpern and Paula Paley

Reproduced by kind permission of the publisher.

Tags:

advice African poetry falling in love jewellery Love Morocco wisdom

About this poem

This poem, representing Morocco, is part of The Written World – our collaboration with BBC radio to broadcast a poem from every single nation competing in London 2012.

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