I'm on the hotel terrace in Marrakech
at such a distance that sounds don't follow movements:
a cat darts from a butcher's door into a crack;
place Jemaa el-Fna* rests on the rooftops' backs;
a golden glow promises future scorching;
a subdued scuffle deafening din morning's fortune.
*Jemaa el-Fna: founded 1062, an early Place de la Concorde, whose name translates to "meeting place of the dead" because the severed heads of Moslem dissidents were displayed there.