Mohamed Ellaghafi (Prepared Angela Kosta)
Moderator 
MOHAMED ELLAGHAFI
Mohamed Ellaghafi a Moroccan poet, writer, and publisher, was born on December 7, 1960, in Casablanca. He is the founder and current president of the University of Moroccan Creators and the founder of the National Poetry Award in Morocco. He has published more than fifteen books, ranging from poetry to short stories, and has participated in significant national and Arab poetry gatherings. He is considered one of the pioneers of modern poetry in Morocco, with his beginnings tracing back to the early 1980s as the founder of the (Five Senses) poetic movement, an artistic movement that emerged to align with the course of modernity.
Currently, he publishes in the Qatari magazine Doha, the London-based newspaper Al-Zaman, and the Egyptian magazine Al-Ahram. He was also honored by the Moroccan Ministry of Culture in 2019, in Beirut and Cairo in 2014, and by several prestigious associations both nationally and internationally.
His works have been translated into several languages, including English, French, Persian, German, Albanian, Italian and Korean.
I HAVE NO ERASER
I have no eraser to hand,
Yet I wish with all I can,
To erase the world’s mistakes
In every moment that breaks.
Yet I wish with all I can,
To erase the world’s mistakes
In every moment that breaks.
Thoughts pull me far away,
From myself, where I stay.
Often it’s the other who’s wrong,
Believing I’m lost all along,
In tiny details that seem so near,
When there’s something much greater here.
From myself, where I stay.
Often it’s the other who’s wrong,
Believing I’m lost all along,
In tiny details that seem so near,
When there’s something much greater here.
More than writing lines of rhyme,
These fingers, in their given time,
Could do anything but still,
They can’t erase the war’s ill will.
These fingers, in their given time,
Could do anything but still,
They can’t erase the war’s ill will.
لا مِمْحاةَ لي
لَدَيّ أَكْثَرُ مِنْ رَغْبَةٍ
لِمَحْوِ أَخْطاءَ الْعالَمِ
في كُلِّ لَحْظَةٍ
يَتَخَطَّفُني التَّفْكيرُ بَعيداً
عَنّي
غالِبا ما يَكونُ الْآخَرُ
مُخْطِئاً
حينَ يَعْتَقِدُ
أَنَّني شارِدٌ في
تَفاصيل صَغيرَةٍ
هُناكَ
ما هوَ أَهَمُّ مِنْ كِتابَةِ قَصيدَةٍ
الْأَصابِعُ الَّتي
تَسْتَطيعُ أًنْ تَفْعَلَ
أَيّ شَيْءٍ آخر
لا تَسْتَطيعُ مَحْوَ أَخْطاءِ
الْحَرْبِ.
THEY’RE ALL… LIES, MY FATHER
Father,
Oh Father,
The sky barely rains
But pain,
And the eyes of the weary,
Desperate,
Like autumn leaves that fall,
The heart drops
At the doorstep of the wind.
And the news tonight—
Lies.
The language of love—
Lies.
The days,
And my city when it smiles—
Lies.
Even my mother,
When she reassures me about my homeland—
Lies.
The poems of hope,
And dreams,
And visions,
Children’s songs,
The banners of rights,
Promises,
And treaties of peace—
Lies.
Oh Father,
Oh my deep wound,
Oh my hidden depth,
What is the silence's link
To the discord of places?
Oh Father,
The sky barely rains
But pain,
And the eyes of the weary,
Desperate,
Like autumn leaves that fall,
The heart drops
At the doorstep of the wind.
And the news tonight—
Lies.
The language of love—
Lies.
The days,
And my city when it smiles—
Lies.
Even my mother,
When she reassures me about my homeland—
Lies.
The poems of hope,
And dreams,
And visions,
Children’s songs,
The banners of rights,
Promises,
And treaties of peace—
Lies.
Oh Father,
Oh my deep wound,
Oh my hidden depth,
What is the silence's link
To the discord of places?
كلّها... كاذبة يا أبي
أَبي
يا أَبي
السَّماءُ
تُمْطِرُ بِالْكادِ
وَجَعاً
وَعُيونُ الْكَادِحينَ
بائِسَةٌ
كَ
وَرَقَةِ الْخَريفِ
يَسْقُطُ الْقَلْبُ
عَلى عَتَبَةِ الرِّيحِ
وَالْأَنْباءُ هَذا الْمَسَاء
كاذِبَةٌ
لُغَةُ الْحُبِّ كَاذِبَةٌ
الْأَيّامُ
وَمَدينَتي حينَ تَبْتَسِمُ
كاذِبَةٌ
حَتّى أُمّي
حينَ تُطَمْئِنُني عَن وَطَني
كاذِبَةٌ
قَصائِدُ الْأَمَلِ
وَالْأَحْلامُ
وَالرُّؤى
وَأَناشيدُ الْأَطْفالِ
وَلافِتاتُ الْحُقوقِ
وَالْوُعودُ
وَمَواثيقُ السَّلامِ
كاذِبَةٌ
يا أَبي
يا جُرْحي الْغائِرُ
يا عُمْقِيَ الدَّفينُ
ما عَلاقَةُ الصَّمْتِ بِنَشازِ الْأَمْكِنَةِ.
ABOUT TO DEPART
War
Is not all that fills this suitcase,
And all this spilled blood
Is not enough
To make
A lily bloom in the whiteness of a cloud.
Is not all that fills this suitcase,
And all this spilled blood
Is not enough
To make
A lily bloom in the whiteness of a cloud.
...........................
Love
Is all that fills this suitcase,
And this rain falling in your eyes
Might be
Enough
For a rose to grow
Within the chambers of the heart.
My dear,
Love is a language against war.
I will be careful at the station,
Careful.
The suitcase
Will never change,
But I fear
That the water in your eyes
Might.
Is all that fills this suitcase,
And this rain falling in your eyes
Might be
Enough
For a rose to grow
Within the chambers of the heart.
My dear,
Love is a language against war.
I will be careful at the station,
Careful.
The suitcase
Will never change,
But I fear
That the water in your eyes
Might.
عَلى أهبة سفر
الْحَرْبُ
لَيْسَتْ كُلّ ما في هَذِهِ الْحَقيبَةِ
وَكُلُّ
هَذا الدّمُ الْمُهْرَقُ
لَيْسَ كافِياً
كَيْ تورِقَ
زِنْبَقَةٌ في بَياضِ سَحابَةٍ
...........................
الْحُبُّ
هْوَ كُلُّ ما في هَذِهِ الْحَقيبَةِ
وَهَذا الْمَطَرُ الْهاطِلُ في جَفْنَيْكِ
قَدْ يَكونُ
كافِياً
لِتَنْبُتَ وَرْدَةٌ في
جَنَباتِ الْقَلْبِ
عَزيزتي
الْحُبُّ لُغَةٌ ضِدَّ الْحَرْبِ
سَأَكونُ حَريصاً في الْمَحَطَّةِ
حَريصاً
الْحَقيبَةُ
لَنْ تَتَغَيَّرَ أبَداً
لَكِنّي
أَخافُ
أَنْ
يَتَغَيَّرَ ماءُ عَيْنَيْكِ
