The sky is always blue in children’s eyes.
I dream of a world where hope is shining.
I dream of a place where wandering is placid.
I dream of a time when we can smile without being hindered.
I dream of an ocean where we can drift towards the storm without being petrified.
I dream of a world of peace.
“Buy me warmth, I’ll lead you to my thoughts and light your sky”
LOVE is my best friend.
“They say love only lasts 12 seasons,
I say I loved you since I first met you for so many reasons.
They say love is blind, bitter, evil and brittle,
But to me love is just lovable, unpredictable and indescribable
Love is mythological
Love is mind, body, heart and soul
Love is everything, Love is all
Love is like this
Love is like that
I don’t know what love is
But love is in the shape of the heart that man is holding on that card
They say love is all about lust,
I say how can that be when you’re the opposite of everything I want?
They say there are thousands of love stories out there,
I say have you ever sneaked a peek at all the poems and pictures people share?
Love is honey sweet
Love is the chocolate I can’t taste
Love is a right
Love is a constant fight
Love is the moroccan desert
Love is far away from being perfect
Love is how much I hate you right now
Love is how much I will need you tomorrow
Love is how much I want to talk to you now
Love is how much I will miss you tomorrow
Love is the amount of time I’ll hold a white card with a red heart on it for you…
Ask me now and I’ll deny everything I just said
I’ll pretend I’m not good with words
I’ll fake a heart attack and pretend I’m dead
Because love is the word I felt but never said
Love is my best friend
Love is a picture of an old grey man holding his heart on his right hand!”
Words by my dear friend Hind.
Une cité offerte, enlacée par des rubans de lumière. Un instant vole à la course des étoiles filantes.
A busker’s Soul
Ever since I was a little kid, I loved to play music,
The smile never leaves my face even if life has never smiled back at me,
Family warmth is unnamed for me, but commuters are my family, and the street is my home,
My love for music cleared my path leaded me to busking,
It’s a great way for expressing my feelings about the world I live in,
Sometimes, I feel like an emptiness that needs to be filled when I have such passive and transitory audience,
Sometimes, I am lucky when I get a sideways glance, a smile, a wave, a clap or even a nod,
My daily’s quest is to banish machines cacophony and flourish like a tree with my guitar soul in the mysterious alleys of town.
Words of a Guru’s disciple
“If you judge me for what’s on my head instead of what’s in my brain
Then there’s nothing I can do for you
I believe in life, I believe in love
I believe in the youth and I believe in everything I’ve felt and seen
I believe in Paris and I believe in Delhi
And if you don’t
Then there’s something wrong with you and nothing wrong with me
Don’t judge me for my beard
Don’t judge me for my freckles
I am human and my heart beats just like yours
I heard of what they wrote in the papers the other day
And it made me wonder: Where is this beautiful world going ?
It’s 2012 and they judge you for the color of your skin
It’s far away from anything I’ve ever believed in
So don’t judge them for the way they look
Don’t judge them based on where they came from
Don’t hurt people with words stronger than Mohamed Ali
Believe me, one day, you yourself are going to prove yourself wrong
And come back to this letters I wrote and thank me
Love the world, love each other
Love Paris, London, Tokyo, Delhi and Igmir
Love you and love me
Love life and don’t let any second go to waste
Hear me out, I’m grey and old and I know that this life is worth living for…”
Por”Let’s celebrate the rest of our lives!”
We may not share the same language but there’s a unique shape of joy.
reeSourire d’une vallée. Ce sourire rebelle ignoré et délaissé au fin fond d’une montagne. Ce sourire, persistant dans le besoin et la misère, et qui continue à s’esquisser. Ce sourire combatif, ce sourire qui ne s’éteint pas et qui restera là, dans l’oubli.
Patrick, le photographe du Mans