This is your face,
a women says holding up a 
leaf from an azemmur
as a mirror
and this is your story, 
pressing dust into my palms. 
This land of barbed questions,
in spite of everything,
this is your only identity.
I didn’t recognize myself in the shade of the Aurès.

This is my inheritance, 
centuries of spilled blood, 
storing it for the alter of the ancient gods.
Cultivating false courage, 
this is how legends are destroyed.
From the mountains 
they still come unrepentant.
Still grinding galena,
still trying to rediscover the 
geometrical path to Home.

The nations who call themselves the free people.
The attempt to eradicate continues,
occupied, then ruined.
Yet history could not be eliminated,
which rooted itself deep 
soaked with lineage and 
the bold repetitions of stories
articulated by women who
can not differentiate 
warrior and queen, 
thinking they are synonymous.

For too long we have been silent as you 
attempted to block admission, 
imposing the shape of your words into our mouths, 
breaking loom after loom.
Under the risk of collapse,
on the verge of revolution 
we’ve finally realized that we too, are 
also the guest of eternity. 
Now, we can finally master tifinagh* 

*Azemmur = olive tree tifinagh= our language