Every evening, as the sun set behind
the mountains, it would be time for the Lebanese goats to head to bed. Layla
would sit on the stone fence, her silhouette framed by the setting sun, and
play her reed flute. The notes, soft and melodic, would waft across the
meadows, signalling to the goats that it was bedtime. The goats would stop
whatever they were doing and skip into line, their bells jingling melodiously,
echoing the notes from Layla’s flute.
Farmer Karim, with his weathered face and hands that told
tales of decades of hard work, would stand at the entrance of the barn, holding
a lantern that spread a soft glow. He counted each goat as they entered,
patting some, murmuring warm words to others, ensuring that each one was safe
and sound. Inside the barn, the goats had their own spaces. Fresh hay was
spread out for them, and a breeze flowed through, carrying with it the earthy
scent of the surrounding olive groves.
There was, however, one particular goat named Nadia, who
always took her time. She would wait until all the other goats were inside, and
then, with a mischievous glint in her eye, would dance around Layla.
Eventually, though, with a combination of Layla’s coaxing and her own volition,
Nadia would happily trot into the barn—but not before giving Layla a gentle
nudge with her head.
With all the goats settled in, Layla would join her grandfather, and together they would seal the barn doors. After placing the lantern down, Farmer Karim would share stories of his youth, of goats he had known, of the beauty and challenges of life in the village. Layla would listen, enchanted, as the stars kept watch from the firmament above.
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