Camped on the hillsides near the village are fields of mimosa. During the gathering season, it may happen that, some distance away, you meet an extremely sweet smelling girl whose arms have been busy during the day among the fragile branches. Like a lamp with a bright nimbus of perfume, she goes her way, her back to the setting sun.
To speak to her would be sacrilege.
The grass crushed beneath her slippers. Give her right of way. You may be lucky enough to make out on her lips the chimaera of the damp Night.
