Some time ago, Mother told me, that when she looks at me carrying all this burden, her pains begin to itch.

I remembered her words this morning,  when she was beside me and wrinkles crept into her face, and wanted to tell her: 
Forget the burden, Mother! 
The valley is so beautiful this morning! 
It is the time for the mists to come down from the mountain, 
to lie among the soft grass,
to rest.
Look at them, the dear ones, curling up with the road,
snuggling with the little heart,
finding solace among his thistles.

Follow them down till they reach the wildflowers,
till they meet the fallow deer, till they touch the Carob tree.

They appear and disappear, as all beautiful things do.
They ascend and descend, as if they are the ladder of Jacob.

Look at the valley, Mother.
(it turnes the burden into morning dew)