The land of the Mirabelle trees

There is a romance I have always found in my old, romanian village. A raw, sunburned beauty, with a ragged dress, stepping barefoot along with the polished shoes that visit her from the city.

This girl that never wanted to grow up but stayed wild and free of any sign of progress.
Bathing herself in wine and brandy, covering its body with the forest only.

Her corn and poppy fields, laying under the waves of heat, waiting for rains to push their roots deeper in Mother Earth.

Peasents, thumping wodden tables with the mirabelle brandy shots, woke only by the folk songs that mingle with the sunsets.

Liquid shades melt on lime painted walls, uncovering a tan glow, mesmerizing tones of yellow or nude or orange.

Her summer nights are quiet, and while she sets in wearing a necklace of stars, the Perseids cut through her darkness leaving behind trails of golden smoke.

All the other skies, the other Moons, the star clusters, are foreign to me.

The way I love her, is so infinite and intense, that I can safely say, there might never be someone alike.


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