I’m in Sarcelles, right there, among them all

it’s not a mirage this time
everything was set up to recreate the lost atmosphere of the homeland :
the music, the madras, the iceboxes filled with unusual-tasting sodas,
the smell of pastries wrapped in tinfoil
whole families have joined the party, smoke escapes from the barbecues,
children take turns at the handles of wooden ice cream chunks,
and under the cherry trees, locks of golden hair are being woven and plaited.
the illusion is perfect

but the sea, without whom the island can’t be, is still missing