On a cold evening of the new year, Maria sat alone on a desolate bench with fixed eyes and lips parted. Hers was a life strewn with misery and struggle, a life wasted in Sisyphean labour as a housemaid in the red city Marrakech. She too could have been a poetess and have her works published, but her dreams were crushed even before they could take on a subtle form. The dreams of a popper, were no more than thin snowflakes covering the ugly road, no more than the dilapidated cottages that were swept away by the raging storm, no more than Maria’s fading hope to see the sun rays break through the thick, gloomy clouds that overshadowed her heart and soul. For what was life worth living after all? Clinging desperately to a life, a world that had denied her existence, stripped her of her childhood and tore her…
