The Piggy Bank of Time
(Kumbaraja e kohës)

As twilight descends, casting black ink upon the village, and the dog's eyes in the courtyard are like two spent oil lamps, you at the windowsill show not your elbows, nor do you bestow a glance at the plum trees or at the fences in the lane.

"On the Night of St. Demetrius, there is time enough for sleep and thought," chides one of those voices which hardly whispers, and you sit there dazed for hours on end.

And, when you finally get up, you accidentally shatter a porcelain vase (a custom of old, and there is nothing you can do).

Light the lamp and of your childhood study the grey coins scattered upon the floor.