The village cannot explain,
but that place, where
village animals (no cows and pigs) gather together,
as if for a walk, on Sundays at dusk,
where no one is willing to build,
where you can't go just like that, but tune yourself
like a musical instrument, to be played on
with invisible fingers, is only
a big sloping meadow with
a venerable oak tree in the center and
a squat stone cross
knocked in at its foot.