Still here, after everyone has left and the doors have been locked, I climbed to the rooftop — where I am not supposed to be — but art, at its core, is rebellion. From this height, I draw nearer to the idea. It doesn’t matter whether I am on a summit or at the edge of an abyss. Nor does it matter whether I lose balance, by mistake or by choice, as long as I overlook a horizon drenched in sunlight at dusk.

Between me and my homeland there’s a distance as far as the limits of vision, there is a long stretched patience, accumulated hopes, and some forgetfulness. Yet I know my homeland as I know the setting sun: different places do not erase it, and travel does not hinder its renewal for those who truly see. The homeland does not disappear.

My homeland knows me, and I know it. The ocean knows, and so does the old time.
People, in all their diversity, know my homeland in all its multiplicity. Some call it Maroko, a name derived from Marrakesh, its older name, which itself is a shortening of Mur Akush, meaning Land of God in our ancient Amazigh tongue.

In Arabic, it is called Maghreb (lit. the sunset) — the farthest edge of the known world, where journeys end and travel comes to a halt before a sea of darkness. Or perhaps… where poetry begins.

Morocco is a metaphor for the place — and time — of sunset, and that lends it a deeper meaning full of longing. If you were to ask me about my homeland, I would answer without hesitation: my belonging to it is, in truth, a belonging to poetry at sunset.

Others may elaborate on Morocco’s unique location and its stunning beauty — a meeting point between sea and ocean, bordered by water on one side, the desert on another, and mountains on the third, a stronghold that has withstood enemies and offered refuge to those who sought it. Others may recount the epics of its dynasties and the triumphs of its leaders.

But I say beauty is a gift from God, and it is linked to the amount of love in the eye of the beholder. Distinction is bound to knowledge, to know a thing’s merits is to care for its essence. As for empires, they have their dues and their debts.

Yet the very name Maghreb — with its poetic load, its dusk and music and melancholy — deserves our pause. For names endure even as eras pass and landmarks fade. And poetry, too, endures — even after the sun has set.

My yearning to belong to poetry and to sweet words cannot be whole without others who believe in it — individuals or communities who live by it. As the Arabs say: The most beautiful poetry is the most deceptive, and it is never more deceiving than when linked to just one person.

Outwardly, it seems most people in my homeland are too busy for poetry. How then can they heed the subtleties of expression when time is short and life itself is struggle?

In Morocco, if you do not cut time, it will cut you. If you do not drink the sea, it will drink you. So many made their greatest dream a boat, or a death. And so few have glimpsed the dream, or even its mirage.

Is this not, in its harshness, the very truth of poetry?

Let me return to the sun’s setting, which reminds me of my country’s name, and let me ask you of the Atlas Mountains and the Atlantic Ocean. Let me ask you of Hercules’ Cave. Are they not an Iliadic poem, binding my homeland to yours? Are they not proof that ancient words still cast ruins that challenge seas and passports alike?

So tell me, my friend: Do you feel your belonging is to the earth? To the sea? Or are you, like me, drawn to the horizon?

Time presses in. The evening sun has set, its path now irreversible. And with it passes the day, a return as impossible as a tear returning to the eye. Still, despite the sorrow in this moment, I recall the famous song in which the poet pleads with the sun to slow down. And I feel the urge to sing. 

Shams Al-Ashi — “The Evening Sun” — is a beautiful poem with a soft melody, familiar to every Moroccan. With it, celebrations begin, lovers gather, it is the anthem of joy, it is joy itself.
What’s remarkable is that this piece is anonymous, but the Moroccan-Andalusian pronunciation suggests a 13th-century origin.
The poet begins by describing the sun’s setting, the accompanying birdsong, and tears that fill the eye.

Then he pleads with the sun to be gentle and slow, before drifting into verses that seem, on the surface, romantic:
“The face of the beloved is like the heavens,
and the cupbearer is courteous,
serving with Venetian vessels.”

But this love is, in truth, a Sufi image. To liken a face to the sky is to admit that beauty escapes all human description. It means that love and beauty belong only to the Divine. And if they are found in a person, it is only to remind us of God and of the Light of His Face, in which we seek refuge.

The cupbearer is courteous because he knows that every soul shall, sooner or later, taste his cup. The Venetian vessels? A trace of trade between Morocco and the Republic of Venice, another clue to the poem’s date.

The time is sunset. The place is Morocco. The song is celebration. The cups are fine.
The verses, well composed. But their essence? Helplessness. The fading of youth. The pain of parting.
So what can be done? Where lies salvation?

The poem ends after a philosophical and poetic travail, settling at a shore where one moment of joy condenses an entire life, for every glass in hand waits its destined hour.
And waiting has never stopped a song.

So, my friend — whenever the wind stirs, whenever the moon is full, whenever the sea is roused, whenever the sun sets — this is my song for me, and for you, and for those who carry a longing in their hearts.

My song is for those who left, like the dying of a light. And to the soul when it shakes.
It is for all who came to Morocco — by will or by fate — for those who found solitude in its mountains and caves, or drew close to its shores. For those who lit votive candles in its name. For those who vowed to watch the sea, afraid it might depart. And for all who have departed in body, but whose place in poetry remains, undying.