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
