to my heart.
Every stone in it bound to my lashes.
...And I turned its stones to marble with my mouth, stone by stone, and no stone remained in it against which I had not pressed my forehead a thousand times.
And there is no boulder there in whose veins I have not carved my heart.
And no moon set, in our village in those years, except from there.
And no moon rose, except from her western house, which stood above the path...
And after me came the village boys, one upon another, waving to the girls in the windows, appearing for a moon and vanishing for a moon.
And they took to carving their hearts in the boulders...
But the sweet one, my sweet one from whose house the moon rose, waved to no one among the people but me, and my heart waved to no one but her on that path...
...
And the innocent tales followed one upon another, on the moon's path, in our village.
And it was as if the meager spring, below the path, had become a river in our village — the red jars on shoulders, coming and going, in the light of the moon...
And as if the spring gushed only under the moon, and its water dried up in the sun.
And no jar came back, as I recall — and the red jars recall — but full of perfumed water, with a red rose in its mouth, or a stalk of lily, or a sprig of basil.
Whence does the perfume come to those little red jars?..
Whence does the water come to that meager, trickling spring?
A tale known only to the spring, and the white valley, and the path above the spring and the valley... and us.
...
And what more is there to tell, of the moon's path in our village?
If you had seen it, you would know how the moon lives there among us, from the beginning of the night to the end of the night.
From the mountain to the sea... one single sweep of colors and shadows.
It turns the rock to marble...
And shatters the earth into gold...
The white earth in our valley crumbles into gold, or into silver the color of gold...
Who has ever known silver the color of gold?
If you had seen it... you would know how the shadows and the lights, the colors and the darknesses, and the phantoms, keep pace with one another in the curves, from chain to chain, from summit to summit, from hollow to hollow... flung loose here and gathered up there, as if the fingers of the jinn were touching them and letting them fall...
...
"The moon's path"... the moon's lips have been worn bare upon it...
And its stones worn bare by his footsteps, as if he knew no path but this one, on the night stroll he had made his habit.
...
I passed along it yesterday, in the night, and behold, it was another mirror going out — its soil grows nothing but stones.
Its soil is all mere soil.
And the house above it — its windows have been shuttered.
Its people went away and have not returned to this day.
Another mirror going out in my village.
And the sweet one who once waved to me from beneath the windows has hidden her rose-colored dresses away in her wardrobe...
And this moon still rises over the path, mournful in its passing...
Over a barren land... alone...
Where has love gone from our village?
...
I had it in my soul to build for the moon and the stars, and for love and my beloved, there, a palace of veins of pure marble...
To carry to it beds of roses from the land of Persia, and trellises of jasmine from the far islands.
And the perfumes of India and the lands of the Arabs, and censers of incense, and grains of musk
And to live there with the moon and the stars and love and my beloved...
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