by Ishmael Ait Djafer （Translated by Jack¹ Hirschman）

    The hands of the poor people

    of the Casbah

    are long and thin and stretched like the roots

    of potatoes.

    The voice of the poor people

    is frail²，

    they have round eyes

    and ugly mugs，

    like Pepe Le Moko's when he's sloshed on the Rue³

    du Regard one rainy day

    near the Grevin Museum.

    Now a minute of silence. . .

    two hours of minutes of silence

    in memory of those dead of hunger

    in memory of those dead from the cold

    in memory of those dead of an overdose of sleep

    in memory of those dead broke

    and a stop-right-there； after you； no， you first； no， you

    in memory as well

    of the living dead， who are neither too dead nor too alive

    but nonetheless are living

    for want of something better.

    One day

    I set about counting the poor people

    in the streets of my Casbah

    The beggars were enumerating⁴ their vermin：

    fleas⁵， lice， bedbugs with wrapping included.

    There's only one sun for everybody，

    for the Americans and for the Cannibals.

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