And that I can, even in the pitch darkness of worries and sorrows, see from afar those radiant, white, luminous wings of happiness that used to shade us together in our childhood days, so that our souls would shine with their light, like the sparkle of wine in its cup. And I can see that lush, verdant garden that was the pasture of our delights and the stage of our hopes and dreams, as if it were present before me. I see the shimmer of its water, the gleam of its pebbles, the rows of its trees, and the colors of its flowers. That stone bench on which we used to sit at the ends of the day, gathering for a conversation that captivated us, or a bouquet that united its blossoms, or a book whose pages we turned, or a drawing in whose perfection we competed. And those green thickets to whose shade we would resort whenever we finished a round of the race, feeling what the joys of birds seeking refuge in their mothers’ bosoms feel. And those small pits that we would dig with some twigs on the banks of streams and ponds, then fill them with water, and then sit around them to catch the fish that we had thrown into them with our own hands, rejoicing if we caught any of them as if we had won a great prize. And those beautiful golden cages in which we used to raise our sparrows and birds— Then we would spend long hours beside them, marveling at their appearance and the sight of their green beaks as they sipped water at one moment and picked up grains at another. We would call them by the names we had given them, and when we heard their chirping and singing, we would imagine that they were answering our call. I do not know whether what I harbored in my heart for my cousin was affection and brotherhood or love and infatuation, but I do know that it was without hope or expectation. I never told her one day that I loved her, because she was my cousin and the companion of my childhood, and I was too protective of her to be the first one to inflict this painful wound on her heart. Nor did I ever dare to link the causes of my life with the causes of her life, because I knew that her parents would not bestow someone like her upon a miserable, poor young man like me. Nor did I ever try, in any hour, to elicit from her what the eager lovers seek, because I held her in too high esteem to bring her down to such a level. Nor did I ever think of trying to discern from behind her glances the secret of her soul, to know in which of the two positions her heart had placed me—whether in the position of a brother, so that I might be content with that from her, or in the position of a beloved, so that I might seek the aid of her will against the will of her parents? Rather, my love was like that of the devout monk, the image of the Virgin Mary inclined before him in his hermitage, whom he worships but does not gaze upon.
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