Child, rest your hands on my knees.
I believe eternity was born in a village,
where any thought slows down,
and any heart beats less often,
as if it wouldn't beat in your chest,
but somewhere deep underground.
Here the thirst for salvation heals,
and if your feet are bleeding
you rest them on mud.

Look, the night falls.
The village's soul flies by us,
like the shy scent of the freshly cut grass,
like the smoke falling of the roofs of dried straws,
like little goats playing on tall graves.