I tried to raise a fine garden
With all the flowers of my soul
And all the trees worthy of envy:

Trellises with crimson grapes,
Peaches the shade and lucence of amber . . .
The basil and the rose are mingled there.

Alas! I have lived too long
And in my very presence,
It has been turned over to sheep.

5.

I am stricken with an incurable ill
And I am being consumed little by little:
As soon as I get better the sore opens.

Medicine has no remedy for this ill;
I have sought one in vain in many towns
And consulted both men and women.

This time you may prepare my slab
Before they come to tell you:
Mohand has one foot in the grave.

Translated from Mouloud Feraoun's
French versions of the Tamazight
by Eric Sellin