Yūsuf al-Qa'īd, Drought

It is morning as he wakes from his sleep and opens his eyes to start the day with that familiar feeling of pain all over his body. He looks at the ceiling; sits up in bed. He tries to stand, but feels dizzy: it's as if the floor were spinning round and round, and the walls whirling about him. He realises just how emaciated he is, takes off his only galabiya which he wears next to his skin when he sleeps, runs his hands over his body. His hands stop between the weals of skin. He is frightened by the icy cold feel of his skin and he mutters to himself "Pray God it ends well!" He puts on his outdoor clothes and thrusts his feet into his shoes on his way out. He goes past the dark and gloomy animal-shelter. His wife is sitting half-under the cow, with a
full teat in her hands and the milk-bucket between her thighs. A warm jet of milk comes spurting out; he can hear it striking the bottom of the bucket. He can see the steam rising from the warm milk condensing in droplets round his wife's face, making it flushed. He goes round to check his live stock. He looks at the troughs and finds them empty: a foreboding in his heart of dearth, droughts and lean years. He turns round. The air in the animal-shelter is thick with the smell rising from a floor soaked overnight by urine and excrement.