Child, come and put your hands on my knees.

I think eternity was born in the village.

Here each thought is much slower,

and the heart beats at another pace,

as if it doesn't beat in your chest

but somewhere deep, in the ground.

Here the thirst for salvation is quenched

and if your feet have bled

you can sit on a clay hearth.

Look, it's evening.

The village soul flutters around us,

like a shy smell of cut grass,

like a lowering of smoke from straw eaves,

like the playing of lambs on tall graves.