Hour of the Shepherds
Late at night, we heard the audience passing outside
our windows; they thought no one could hear them,
that they were the masters of the night, the only
inhabitants of the world, commenting freely about
the various scenes of the troupe, imaginary scenes or
true scenes of life and death as if they were also
performed on stage. Thus, they unfolded in front
of us on the muddy road, and although the rain had
stopped
they still held their black umbrellas open and
their voices, although loud, sounded kind of soft
as if melted black fabric moistened by another rain.
Kind days of the countryside. It rained almost every
day from dawn
to three o’clock in the afternoon when the sun shone
for a while;
the golden hour of the sheep, Uncle Lampis used
to say.
Sheep came out to graze; the leafless trees shone with
all their drops shining on the deserted gardens with
their frosty, silvery gleams.
