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End of the Winter

1.

That winter ended on a Friday. Down the hills, the mud slid, opening little holes to keep the water warm within, and for the spring lilies to grow in colors.

I first encountered the little green surfaces holding the water like mountains holding the glaciers, when I escaped my cousins’ bullying, and hid behind the bushes.

I told my mother about the clover I found, she asked me to look for a clover leaf with four open lobes, I never found one. Until I was twenty-five, and I first encountered one on a California hill.

3.

The last winter also ended on a Friday. Down the hills, in the little opened mud holes instead of the warm water – solid rocks grew in number.

The countless dark marbles rock around the stream hosted creatures from the crawling snakes to the howling wolves. Yet what amazed me most was my young cousins swimming in the running stream.

They took off their dresses and with their complete naked bodies jumped into the cold-warming water. I waited for them above the rocks, and saw them crawling under the rocks and disappeared in search of other village streams, where the slippery surface of the marble felt warmer. I sat cross-legged waiting for a better view of the streams streams running between the hills and the uncountable sheep grazing under the rays. My cousins never returned in the water, like the snakes – they appeared among the rocks, naked and exposed to the sun, in search of their new skins, happy and satisfied.

2.

The next winter also ended on a Friday. Down the hills, in the little opened mud holes instead of the warm water the spring lilies grew yellow among the rocks.

I had found and counted the shedding skins of the snakes – folded and unfolded on the drying ground. Ivory, Shiny and Fragile, like the grown-ups’ long nails.

I pulled them gently into a corner and lined stones around them, so that the snakes would leave us in peace in case they came to search for, and wished to re-enter their dead remains.

Their countless discarded skins cloistered near the hollowing stream that always scared me; it ran through the heart of our village and nourished the white wolves in other villages.

80 poems fayyaz

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