...Our paths in the mountain are tales...

One is for the red jars, in the elegance of their carrying, alighting on the earth, or not alighting.

And for the red cheeks, the color of delicious apples, if you like, or something like the colors of sunrise, when the light steals through from behind our high mountains...

And one is for singing and the drovers' chant, in the half-dark of nightfall, along which our young men come home, with slow steps, to warmth and well-being.

And one is for the grape clusters, in the vineyards.

And one is for the moon... as if the moon rose nowhere but there...

It was the tale of tales in the village...

And it was for love...

I wonder...? Is it still for love?

Or has love died on the paths of our village, the one on the white hill?!

And is it still for the moon, I wonder? Or has the moon turned his path away from it?

It was a bed of roses... and a rope of silk going and coming, never breaking except when the ropes of night break.

No — rather it was a lock of the moon's hair, which we tied down to the earth with our eyelashes.

...

...And on the path, where we live, we would glimpse the sweet girl in the windows of her house, wiping crystal with crystal, or smelling the pots of basil on the balcony, with a sweet nose that knows how to smell. Or shaking out the brown mat, for the feast day...

Then the sweet one would shut her window on us, or bury her head in the pot of basil, or the brown mat would fall from her hand, so that nothing remained in her hand but the stick, which she brandished at us in threat...

And the path kept walking us back and forth, in hopes that the owner of the crystal hand would come back to her window.

...

...And she waved to me, once, from above the path, from beneath the western windows of their house.

And she was, as I recall,

the color of blossoms, and the age of the moon.

Was it her pure, delicious hand that waved?

Or her eyes, whose color I do not know to this day?

In our house, some say they are the color of honey, and some say the color of wine...

And I, to this day, do not know the color of her eyes!..

Or was it, I wonder, her rose-colored dress that waved to me, from above, from beneath the windows of their house.

That day, I came to know "the moon's path" in our village. Before then, the path had been a road that led me home, to my mother's arms, on my way back from my grandmother's, in the neighboring village...

And the path became, from that day on — the day she waved to me from above — something with no beginning and no end.

A thing tied