Trafika Europe 3 - Latvian Sojourn

Pastele Island

Glowing from the sun, the giant pastele counts things. These almost belong to her but not quite . . . Pastele counting the hallway, how many meters long, tall, how wide the distances, how deep the mud around the sea. Then the pastele walks in a light trot, stops. At the corner of the granary, smells mud left by a stranger. Oh, if that could be the other pastele , but if it’s not, don’t come into my corner, there’ll be trouble! And the giant pastele leaves a thick, but shallow streak in the earth by the woodshed. The pastele ’s thoughts are also enormous, it would be happy to kiss the sun, but can’t, it’s too high. Having driven dust into trampled wrinkles, the pastele stands vertically and looks about long, long. Tries to look fierce. At night sleep won’t come, and the pastele decides to go look for the lost mate. But in the dark land an almost worn- out bast shoe looks almost as large. So the stranger dares to enter and stay on the threshold.

“Away, away, away!” growls the pastele .

“Gills, gills, gills!” the adversary growls back and doesn’t even consider leaving.

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