The small hills of my cousin

by dris khali

You know, my mother was afraid that I can no longer resist.
 She was absolutely right:
 My four sisters have all passed away before the summer shows its fruit.
 It was hard "said my mother”, not to see my flowers bloom.
 I, the calf of my mother,
I came into the world without my wish.
There was plenty of milk in the breasts of my mother.
 Surely, I had nothing to do in this strange world except suck ...
It was my only reason for being;
 My only way to tell my mother that she has nothing to fear.
 I sucked and cried,
Oh!  my mother's milk that flowed into my mouth had the taste of real milk.
  My mother, who had no choice to choose her dinner, was very happy to watch me grow every day. Her  goats, chickens, the bees, garden, olive trees were there ready to offer all they could offer.
For her interest, I grew and grew.
Mr. Freud was wrong.
° ° °

One spring day,
 I had three years, just three years and a few butterflies.
 My cousin took me by my own eyes
My own eyes which were climbing up her small  grape-breasts
 July came on those days
 Opening its warm arms
To the Goats of my mother, her cow, her cat
And even to the rats
 That my cousin did not like.
° ° °
I remember:
In the middle of a  jasmine- night
 I woke up
Smiling and wet
I had nothing in my garden.
 I was eighteen years and three slips.
 My cousin who I have a thousand and one nights dreamt of was gone.
 I was told  she had followed
 The way that her  knight showed her.
° ° °
These last three evenings,
 Some snowballs  have invaded my top
I think I have crossed the age of maturity.
 At Forty-eight years, my mother whispered this to me:
Your cousin awoke one  December -night
The weather was as black as the abyss of a well,
And there was a Frankenstein in her room;
 He said he liked too
 Her nice brown round breasts.
° ° °
Life, that door which  opens on the unexpected
As my mother said,
Must so continue.
° ° °
In a few months and  some thorns will come  fall,
  I'll be sixty-seven years and three hundred and sixty-four days.
 It is true that I lost everything:
 Bread and milk of my mother
 The breasts and fingers of my cousin
 My butterflies ...
But I have again and again
An hour and a dream .
You know, my mother told me once
We can do nothing against the dreams of the dawn
 And the real choices.

                                                                                 Driss khali