Child, rest your hands on my knees.
I believe timelessness have been born in a village,
where any thought slows down,
and any heart beats less often,
as if it won’t be in your chest,
but somewhere deep underground.
Here the thirst for salvation heals
and if your feet are bleeding
you rest them on a mud pit.

Look, the night falls.
The soul of the village flies-by us,
like the shy smell of the fresh cut grass,
like the smoke falling from the eaves of dried straws,
like kids playing on tall graves.