seems like istanbul

You are a passer by, on your way from one forest scenery to a next. The indigenes – they really are – seem busy and not to notice you, but then seem disturbed.

There is nothing with you but a rucksack and an open heart. But it has been unlocked only for a little while – following your course in the mountains, you turned out to be right in a bilberry field. And there you stood astonished forever.
Is it too personal saying you used to be mad smelling your granny’s hot bilberry pies and just the other day you realized the kind of love this person gave you is what you miss most about your childhood? This month has just happened to be a ‘I wish I could thank those imprinted on my heart’ one for you. Sure, your inner planets will have other orbits now that the hasty waterfall washed away the old you, or now that having once lifted your head from the path, you strongly believed for a second you are one of Lord of the ring characters, or now that falling asleep one day under the sky full of falling stars, you couldn’t help making wishes. This all just possibly paved the way for your most sentimental moment.

Now the world is absolutely pure and currently the world means this place.
You stop and stare, the wind taking away the last drops another sudden rain has left on your cloths.

An eleven people village.
Six of the eleven are in the middle of their lives.
Three of the eleven look as if they are over a hundred.
Each of the three is alone.
Alone stands for nobody having moles in the places where you have has lunched at one table with you for a couple of years (or a couple of tens, gosh).

Everybody is outside, busy farming.
Summer. Time to feed the earth so that it can feed you back.

This is the main law they obey. You knew your trip would be past at least one settlement of the kind. You knew their cows, real family members in here, perceive the mountain forest as home. You predicted the forest would impress you with integrity causing a desire to stay for life in it as a forester who seeks a true friendship.

The old woman notices you and stands motionless. She wipes her hands on the apron, which seems intrinsic to local women just like their indefatigability. The few remaining clouds are yet to be dispersed. Squinting (the sun, very special here at a high altitude, has apparently taught the woman this face all her life, successfully), wrinkles becoming more distinct, she stays speechless long and then is the first to greet, her voice warm and restful (just as it is to happen when a luminous – probably all life long – soul meets a luminous – probably just for a while, but who cares – soul, and a some eighty year gap is only what adds to the sacredness.