In Missour I grew up,

Left was I to the whims of the dry winds,

and the scarce rain,

and the cruelty of need.

Back then, I rode the cart of my abuser,

who told me mom had abandoned me,

and I believed him.

In the meantime, my dad had lost his sanity,

his food was taken away from him

We were kids,

and we did not care.

Like the winds we strayed,

like the waves we rode,

unfettered but subdued.

That was Missour, my Missour,

That was Igli, my Igli,

I am old now,

an immigrant,

on the other side of the seas,

but the scars are big and gaping,

the spyche is in pain,

the mind is managing.

That was the blow to my childhood.

But now in Missour,

our mothers are standing by,

saying no not anymore.

The malice has to stop.

the subjugation has to stop.

the arrogance has to stop.

That was Missour.

and this is me,

at forty, going back,

my memory in ripples,

because I am sacked,

because I am tired.

But your mention gives me joy,

O Missour of wormwood and alfa

shih and Halfa,

that grow despite the drought and the wild wind,

like your tree I want to be,

So bless my craving.

O Missour.

Abdelhafid Missouri,