Mountain trip

The sun, like a bright orb of molten gold, quivering and majestic, goes to the west. It already overhangs the distant hill, whose solitary slope remains entirely in shadow. The jagged rocks on the back of this hill and the rare black trees that stand alone there sharply outline themselves in the golden purity of the sky.

A mountain breeze softly shakes the leaves of the pear tree with the unpicked yet full and yellowing pears. I lying under it, on the green slope of the hill, watch the bright summer sunset.

Opposite me, across the wide valley of the river, peaks, hammers, bald heights climb towards the sky, as if they want to reach the silver-white clouds and talk to them.

A peasant woman on her back with some kind of burden slowly climbs up a narrow crumbly path and goes up, there, on the hammer, there are heaps, similar to beehives. The breeze gently sways the leaves above me. And the river keeps roaring. And the shadows are getting bigger. The golden rays, passing through the pear tree with its unpicked yet full, yellowing pears, fall on the sloping foliage and play on the grass and on the open book I have forgotten to read. And I, lying there, keep looking...