The Blue Butterfly and I in the Palm Tree Grove
Written by Ahmed Naoual
A Springtime Song
Like a little beast, I devoured my morning dates and, unmoved by the maid's scowls of indignation and mild disgust, rushed amidst the chairs towards my bowl of milk; then I ran, out of the kitchen backdoor, to the palm tree grove, chasing something no eyes could see.
Why are you wearing these yellow socks, for God's sake? I was on the verge of losing my temper that night; the socks were by no means yellow. But Grandma was positive. She could not see; in her eyes the world was the colour of void; Grandma could not see; she only wanted to confuse me. Why didn't she do like Uncle Abbas did and come clean? Uncle Abbas wore dark glasses and asked me about the colour of everything-even about the colour of his cheeks after a luscious meal.
The butterfly alighted; it was blue. On a flower high my blue butterfly alighted. I moved forward, without making a sound, stalking, furtive and crafty. I reached out, it took flight; I fluttered, it melted into the blue sky; I rode the sunrays and soared; I fell.
Something nasty was running through my chest. God, it hurt. A tree trunk, that was for sure. I stood up, trying to recover my lost dignity. Accursed little thing! It was a soldier's boot. Now my blue butterfly had vanished into thin air. I dealt the boot a vicious kick.
I fixed my eyes on the boot, cool and dispassionate this time. It was covered in a cake of mud. I put on the boot and set off marching.
I am a desert soldier. I made the last sacrifice on the battlefield; I offered my blood in a hallowed chalice to the sand; then, out of the war wreck, I rose again, and marched, fighting off hunger and thirst. I shall never surrender! I will resist! Strong I always will be!
To the sweet evening weariness I yielded at last; under a palm tree I lay down, contemplating something no eyes could see.
ŠAhmed Naoual
