** A Little Boy Lost : Sugar man and Edward Bloom in Casablanca

Sugar man in Casablanca

#picoftheday : J'attendais @chama_tahiri pour faire un tour près du jardin de la ligue arabe. L'idée était de se balader vers les quartiers art deco de#casablanca
Je me suis souvenue être venue traîner par ici à plusieurs reprises : parc yasmine, festival de casablanca, concert de hindi zahra en plein air... j'étais triste. 
Un gardien est venu me parler il exprimait aussi sa tristesse de voir ces lieux laissés à l'abandon lui aussi.. il se souvenait quand ça grouillant de gosses et de familles qui jouaient et profitaient des artistes de rues qui venaient profiter de l'affluence pour gratter une ptite pièce. "Daba koulchi ki mchi ellacote ou denia hna mousskha" 
Cest là que je vois au loin cet homme.sous ce ciel de palmiers denses et écrasants. J'ai eu tout d'un coup la mélodie de sugar man dans la tête...

Rodriguez - Sugar Man : 

In the stories of Edward Bloom...

In Casablanca, where i grew up, there is a beautiful area conceived during the french colonization. Architecturally speaking it is an art deco treasure.
I went for a ballad with a friend near "le jardin de la ligue arabe" that used to be a green area, one of the only in town. It used to be a very popular place for families to come and get fresh air among the palm trees, the playgrounds, street artists, little vendors… it was a whole urban ecosystem 
The park closed, the city never cleans the area, the trees are filled with birds shitting all over the place and it really stinks.. when you walk by you can see carcasses of dead birds, honestly if i was told that every night there was voodoo rituals i would believe it…
it’s really disgusting

At the end the whole thing is really photogenic. At some point i felt like i was wandering in the stories of Edward Bloom….

A Little Boy Lost
Nought loves another as itself,
Nor venerates another so,
Nor is it possible to thought
A greater than itself to know.

'And, father, how can I love you
Or any of my brothers more?
I love you like the little bird
That picks up crumbs around the door.'
The Priest sat by and heard the child;
In trembling zeal he seized his hair,
He led him by his little coat,
And all admired the priestly care.

And standing on the altar high,
'Lo, what a fiend is here! said he:
'One who sets reason up for judge
Of our most holy mystery. 
The weeping child could not be heard,
The weeping parents wept in vain:
They stripped him to his little shirt,
And bound him in an iron chain,

And burned him in a holy place
Where many had been burned before;
The weeping parents wept in vain.
Are such thing done on Albion's shore? 

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