Once upon a time, in exotic Zaristan, there lived a farmer. His name was Zahir. He was a kind and patient man. He loved the land as if it were his family. Every Every field of his, to clean it and plow it. He had to quickly prepare the homi in the spring. Zahir every now and then cleaned his field and the sky with his rake. It was as if he was saying a big thank you up there to the clouds, the sun, the birds or somewhere else.
When the afternoon arrived, he stopped to eat a bite of his breakfast. And after he was done… He would pick up his rake again until nightfall and, exhausted, he would return to his house.
Zahir’s life for years had to share the daily. neighbors lived next to his house. The inhabitants followed them to the letter. So, Zahir, who was very poor without even fields, could not even marry. In the land of landowners, so that the rest of the family could survive. It was unfair to the women of Zaristan. They never knew true love. But many men of Zaristan also stayed alone, since they did not have the means to choose their future bride. These were the customs and traditions, however. Zahir knew his roots. But he did not want to be alone. So he decided to change his future. He thought all night how he could change his life. The next morning he went down to the Zaristan bazaar. He bought all kinds of spices and paints and intoxicating oils. He also took a sailcloth and plenty of wood. When he finished shopping, he returned home. He emptied all the purchases on the table. At first he did not know why the magical power pushed him to do it. He opened cauldrons and began to stir them for hours. All day and all night he stirred them and said words of love. He added some exotic fruits and other herbs to the cauldrons. All this mixture had a thick texture. Zahir spread it out in the shape of a man. All night the farmer struggled with the cloth and at dawn, he took some brushes and began to paint this faceless cloth.
and he did not eat, did not drink even water. He abandoned his field and his harvest. He was so busy Maybe he was painting his dreams. He seemed very busy and devoted to his work. the cloth with his brushes came to life. The final touch. Zahir took the canvas.
“I think it’s ready,” whispered the farmer. He picked it up and hung it in his room. A wonderful painting.
On the canvas was a woman. The farmer had painted the figure of a woman. With long black hair, almond-shaped eyes and a smile on her lips. He had painted her in a very beautiful red dress.
From that day on, the farmer became inseparable from his portrait. He looked happier and more optimistic. His life was full of love and companionship. Every morning when he woke up, he said good morning to the portrait. He spoke to it with sweet words as if it were a real person. He told it about his fears and his dreams. When the farmer returned from Tsaristan with the news on the painting.
With the first warmth of the sun, a farmer went to his field and sowed the seeds. Later the rains came. Days passed, months passed. The field had now flourished. The harvest was ready to be harvested. Zahir would return home happily at the hours, he had seeds and they would grow, bringing a good harvest to the farmer. He would tell stories and fall asleep. And the days passed… The months. The years. The seasons brought life and buds to the trees. They brought snow to the mountains. And in the summer the swallows came to the roofs. and the farmer would paint a picture there with him, she would support him and wonder, so much love gathered. Zahir no longer felt alone. The disappointment and gloom had passed. They seemed like memories from another life. Now he had company: the portrait. Sometimes he smiles at every funny story he tells. But even in sad moments, his face seemed to grow sadder.
Such moments full of love and compassion were lived by the farmer. Until one day, after many years, his hair turned white, his face became full of wrinkles. His body became heavy as a pencil. The farmer, to look at it. He closed
The next morning, the sun rose brightly. The farmer never opened his eyes again.
And the portrait was left alone, looking at its creator. A tear seemed to flow from the almond-shaped eyes.
THE END
