Where have you been, traveler?

through the fields and highlands I walked to the lower edge of the sky

I have gathered clouds into glasses. I have picked up words left on stones by old wandering gods. I have planted cherry pits and pour cypress wine over them.

There was no one on the road but me. Nothing on the road but the road itself. And at night, not even I remained. The road absorbed my footprints; they vanished overgrown with grass and wormwood. In the mornings, the road were letting me back, filling my steps with dew, dusting them with the golden shimmering of sunbeam rabbits

On the highlands, the stones grew taller.