Rococo Morocco

I slip into this room from the heat and the noise of the kitchen.  it's now got a couple of bicycles leaning up against the wall and a general feeling of abandon.

There were parties here once with cushions piled high on low benches, wine and joints passed round.  A kaleidoscope of people who over the years joined up or subsequently broke up. 

The breaking ups are the reason this house is for sale.  

Back in the kitchen it's business as usual;  a leg of lamb in the oven, North African style, Margueritas flowing to the point you lose your appetite.

Which is why I've taken this little bit of time away from the sway of the kitchen and have in my misty mind a line from a poem by Neruda.

I dig it out when I get home.  It's preceded by a quote from Quevedo '...hay en mi corazon furias y penas.....'  

Furies and sufferings on a small scale, not that of Spain in 1939, on a toned down peacetime, everyday hurt. 

The poem's long and dark, Goya dark.  I flipped through 'cuando en las reuniones el azar, la ceniza, las bebidas' (which suited this old room) and onto the more hopeful lines that I was looking for:  

'This is a story of ports
Where one arrives by chance and climbs the hills
And so many things come to pass'