I was passing by,
One morning,
 A little flower in a furrow
 I saw, peeping at me;
Soft lavender color,
Tender and fragile,
 Flaunting four tiny petals,
A miniscule golden ball,
Her belly button;
Mesmerized, I watched,
I wanted to touch her,
With my moistened lips,
Caress her glossy folds;
I cried out and hurried my steps;
Following sunrise,
The furrow was barren,
My eyes wept for her;
In a puddle,
Pale, on her tummy,
 Lifeless and floppy,
The little flower
Floated in rain water;
 Queen for a day, memorable forever,
She won the heart of a joker.

Anita Bacha





If I were a flower for the joy of being a flower,

A leaf for being a leaf;

If I were a stem;

If I were a leaf and a stem to dress up a flower;

If I were a flower that you will place on your heart;

If I were all sleek and purple petals,

Petals to cover the nudity of a flower;

If I were a flower that you will place on your heart;

If I were the eyelids for the delight of being the eyelids,

The lashes for being the lashes;

If I were the eyes;

If I were the eyelids and the lashes to cover your eyes;

If I were a teardrop,

A teardrop running down a cheek,

A teardrop that loses itself in the lips;

If I were the lips that caress a flower;

If I were the lips and you were a flower!

Anita Bacha


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Je caresse avec mes yeux

Ta beauté éclatante

J’inspire ton impudicité

Désorienté comme une abeille

Ivre de ton parfum

Secrètement, je baise tes plis opulents

D’autres abeilles jalousement je vois

Grégaire autour de toi

Assoiffé de ton nectar

Comme je voudrais te cacher

Cacher ta nudité

T’envelopper dans mes bras

Te garder tel un trésor

Te garder telle une perle en coquille

Mais hélas!

Soupirant insensé que je suis

Voluptueuse, tu te donnes

Sauvagement au premier venu

Allègre de plaisir

Insouciante du lendemain

Ne s’occuper de rien




Illustration/Artiste/Francis Apied

Les Fleurs

Pourquoi les fleurs de votre jeunesse?

 Fleurs qui ont été tellement prisées,

Tant précieuses,

Fleurs magnifiques,

Douillettes, velouteuses,

Sauvages, affolantes

 Vêtues de couleurs rayonnantes

 Exhalées  de  parfum céleste

Certaines  douces à  émouvoir

Certaines douces mouillées par vos lèvres

Fleurs qui vous ont fait écrire avec ardeur

Pleurer de joie

Frappé d’amour

Les fleurs qui vous ont fait chanter et danser

Fou, amant de fleurs!

Destiné n’étiez vous pas

De tomber amoureux du Créateur de fleurs?

Anita Bacha

colorful flowers


With a song in his heart,

 He paints a red rose bud on a stem,

The portrait of his ideal woman,

The artist;

His brush like a magic wand,

Unveils with gentle dexterity,

 Svelte and exquisite folds of a red rose bud;

A red rose bud,

That will crush under the weight of his hot kisses,

 Without wanting to spoil its purity;

The moist and warm lips of the red rose bud,

Soft and silky,

Innocence of innocence,

He paints with virtuosity, the artist;

The purple blush of the young bud,

The colour of passion that devours his enamoured soul,

The immaculate rose, pressed,

 Squeezed into a tight bud,

As pristine as the artist himself,

Never to unfold its petals to the stars,

Will be a picture of his dream girl,

A red rose bud on a stem,                    

A large bloodstain on a blackboard,

A perennial beauty by a stroke of his brush,

The fantasy of his seventeen years,

A lost love before the blossom of love,

Like a mirage on the shore of time

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Processed with Moldiv

Poem – The Flute Player

 Soft and enchanting music


Opened the gates of heaven;


I tiptoed out of breath


In a garden of gorgeous flowers;


Intoxicated by the scent of the flora


Of all beauty


I tilted slightly


Almost lost myself;


Enthralled by the sweetest of the sweet fragrance


I fell under the charm of the flute player


Anita Bacha