The land of the mirabelle trees

There is a romance I have always found in my grandparents’ 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 never wanted to grow up but stayed wild and free of any sign of progress.
Bathing herself in wine and brandy, covering her body with the forest only.

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

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

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

Her summer nights are quiet and still, scented with zinnias and roses. Gentle heat waves stroke your hair once in a while. The Perseids cut through her darkness, leaving behind trails of golden smoke. I know her sky so well. Every constellation, every planet. I know where the sun rises and sets and the way the fields glow in a faded blue in the distance, and I know how the garden murmurs at night, when everything and everyone is asleep.

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

The way I love her is so infinite and intense that I can safely say there might never be something alike. So blissful, so endearing, so fierce.

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