The streets of Algiers

I used to walk in the street of Algiers

As a North African with chinoise eyes

My hands and my feet all brown

Wondering why nobody looked like me

There were pigeons in the park

mountain filled with pine trees

and communal hot baths

Winter felt like death

And the wind whimpered in sadness

Until I saw the sun in a country

With two seasons in awe to the sight of banana leaves