They sell fragrant breads by the side of the road cooked under the sands using a plant called Amadhoun.
Their plastic sandals have been sewed by a thread. Their layers of clothes each struggle to cover up torn pieces from the ones underneath. They look like paintings , colorful and static as time mercilessly passes taking away their youth. The sun tries to break through their skin only to darken their glow and their eyes stand out as if they were born to see through you.
Like them I feel rootless. There is nothing underneath the dirt grounding me, absolutely nothing. You exist but you've cut me out since the day I was born, mother. I feel like I am standing by the side of the road selling bread too poor and sick to eat.
Some of us are mushrooms not trees. We grow beneath the autumn leaves covering the grounds. We extend little and shadow each other, and we grow through spores while all else is reaching for the sky.
