My language is Tamazight.
No one knows it.
It encompasses multitudes.
Who won’t dance and sing in it?
I am the only one who worries
that my language is hanged,
ropes around its neck.
My tongue is worthless.
Though it speaks
among the deaf, it does wear out.
The word thirst must surely
quench the thirst.

My language is Tamazight.
Nobody wants it.
Some said it is a dream
& abandoned me.
They added:
“Beware! Nothing of what has been said
will ever be known.
Your language remembers a lot
& people refuse
to feel the same pain as you do.”

My language is Tamazight.
It will shatter
the age of silence
& set the hearts on fire
& become stars.
Then we will meet
in our skies . . .

Rabat, 08/04/1978