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In the heart of Morocco

with the Atlas Mountains

holding the horizon

I watched young men

carry fire

like a second language

No gloves

no shield between skin and flame

bare hands bargaining with heat

while sparks stitched gold

into the eyes of strangers

The crowd clapped

phones bloomed upward

like a forest of tiny moons

collecting danger as memory

And there beside a chair

a small box whispered

Tips

Such a quiet word

for work that could blister a lifetime

Some swallowed fire

as if their throats had signed

a private treaty with burning

Some spun it laughing

like the flames

knew their names already

Beautiful yes

night opened its dark curtain

and fire stood alone on the stage with them

But beauty sometimes hides

its unpaid price

I was there today

watching survival

dressed as spectacle

watching young men

make a living

from the oldest danger

on earth