In the Niger River region, there is a town whose name is the stuff of dreams: the mysterious Timbuktu. They say that, a very long time ago, the nomads entrusted the care of a well there to an old ... [+]
How could you know the sunlit afternoons
The glaring white of that low-hanging sky
The suffocating smell of heat wave fumes
The starchy crisp of linen swinging high
How could you know the rotting clementines
The stinging sounds that fold the heart in half
The trails of red carnations left behind
The smoky finishes on photographs
How could you know the hollowness inside
Of missing, what’s the wrong word, missing home
Or the complete and sometimes warlike pride
Eternal fire burning in your bones
Such wasted pain resembles from above
Your desperate and unrequited love
The glaring white of that low-hanging sky
The suffocating smell of heat wave fumes
The starchy crisp of linen swinging high
How could you know the rotting clementines
The stinging sounds that fold the heart in half
The trails of red carnations left behind
The smoky finishes on photographs
How could you know the hollowness inside
Of missing, what’s the wrong word, missing home
Or the complete and sometimes warlike pride
Eternal fire burning in your bones
Such wasted pain resembles from above
Your desperate and unrequited love