In the palm of our children will be stars. I dreamed riots in the afternoon. The soldiers walked above me and above the sky.  They dreamed nothing in the shelter of the barricades they had raised.  They were unaware of the fate of our recidivisms to the awakening of the winter.

In the palm of our children will be the evening. The soldiers, like storks, made nests with their watchtowers among the roofs of our villages, then in peace fell asleep between our ears. They didn't dream events of the afternoon at the time when, in the evening, the sky itself returns slowly towards his own.  We have only one dream: that soldiers pass, be friends and respond to the scents of Arabian coffee on the hills surrounding the summer and the strangers.

I am my dream. When the surrender will reduce itself, I will enlarge it with a wingstroke, as I enlarged myself - who am my dream.  In the crowd, I am filled with the mirror of me, and with my questions on galaxies walking on the tracks of those I like.

In my solitude, there are roads of pilgrimages that lead to Algiers the white - Algiers the medina - word that we pluck from the stone.

How many martyrs will be necessary for the city to keep the name of her mane and to sigh: " I fell without fighting?" And how many heavens will she swap in each of her peoples so that she marvels their crimson shawl?

Oh my dream. do not watch us so.  Do not be the last of the martyrs.