by

Alun Buffry

Mirhleft is a village grand

Made of pink rock and yellow sand.

It's good to laze besides the sea,

And sit and watch, just you and me,

The sunset or the street outside,

Where nothing changes with the tide.

Mirhleft, village by the sea,

A place to stay if you'd be free.

A place to sit and rest a while,

Watch the donkeys single file,

Walking up and down the street-

Burdened in this sticky heat.

And I wonder why those men,

Walk up the street and back again;

Maybe it's to look at me,

Watching them whilst drinking tea?

Sitting outside in the sun,

Wondering what they do for fun.

Then I dream that we ride our bikes,

Or catch a bus or go hitch-hike,

Up the valleys, over mountains,

Rivers deep and magic fountains,

Fields of kif and grass and hash,

Where together we can rest, smashed!

But I return to hotel room,

Where all the morn and afternoon,

We can lay and smoke and play,

But in this place one has to pay:

Five Dirhams a gram:

"C'est n'est pas cher, man!"