In this village live three: the townsfolk, the mists, and me
When the wind blows from the south, the mists come through the crack in the hills. Everyone shuts their windows. Everyone bars their doors. Everyone but us.
We open the windows, invite in the mists and the things that live in that silvery gauze. We give them tea made with rosemary, lavender, and anise; all wild, of course.
In exchange, we receive the stories. Tales of where the blue goes when it disappears from the sky, what color the hills become at night when the darkness swallows them whole. Tales of the green leaves and the grey cranes.
When the morning wind blows the mists away, we pour the rest of the tea into the waves, close our windows and doors, and crawl into our beds for a few hours of sleep.
The rest of the village knows, of course. They can see the silver sparkle in our eyes. They say nothing during the day; but sometimes, in the blue hours of sunset, they come to our doors for silver simples and twists of rosemary and anise. Sometimes, if they're lucky, they hear snatches of stories as well.
They are not brave enough to open their doors to the mists, but they do not shun those of us who are. And that it fine with me.
In this village live three,
the townsfolk, the mists, and me.
We open the windows, invite in the mists and the things that live in that silvery gauze. We give them tea made with rosemary, lavender, and anise; all wild, of course.
In exchange, we receive the stories. Tales of where the blue goes when it disappears from the sky, what color the hills become at night when the darkness swallows them whole. Tales of the green leaves and the grey cranes.
When the morning wind blows the mists away, we pour the rest of the tea into the waves, close our windows and doors, and crawl into our beds for a few hours of sleep.
The rest of the village knows, of course. They can see the silver sparkle in our eyes. They say nothing during the day; but sometimes, in the blue hours of sunset, they come to our doors for silver simples and twists of rosemary and anise. Sometimes, if they're lucky, they hear snatches of stories as well.
They are not brave enough to open their doors to the mists, but they do not shun those of us who are. And that it fine with me.
In this village live three,
the townsfolk, the mists, and me.