Hmla sa za ňou zatvára

Posledné popoludnie letela Polly opäť vysoko nad pobrežím. Pod ňou ležali čajové polia, kráter s dvoma jazerami a tichý les, kde stále žije priolo. Odtiaľ zhora vyzeral ostrov ako to, čím naozaj je: reťazec starých sopiek, ktoré stále pomaly chladnú do zelena.

On her last afternoon, Polly flew high above the coast again. Below her lay the tea fields, the crater with its two lakes, and the quiet forest where the priolo still lives. From up there, the island looked like what it is: a chain of old volcanoes, still slowly cooling into green.

Rybárske člny sa vracali do prístavu a nechávali na tmavnúcom mori tenké biele čiary. Pozdĺž pobrežnej cesty sa jedno po druhom rozsvietili svetlá. Od brehu stúpala vôňa dymu.

Fishing boats were heading back to the harbor, leaving thin white lines on the darkening sea. Lights came on one by one along the coast road. The smell of smoke drifted up from the shore.

Od oceánu sa privalila hmla, presne ako po celý týždeň. Zakryla kráter, potom čajové polia a potom prístav, a ostrov pomaly zmizol z dohľadu. Polly to už videla.

Fog rolled in from the ocean, just as it had all week. It covered the crater, then the tea fields, then the harbor, hiding the island slowly from view. Polly had seen it do this before.

Vyletela nad otvorenú vodu, kým dohasínalo posledné svetlo. Za ňou si ostrov ďalej varil večeru pod zemou, pestoval čaj lístok po lístku a chránil vo svojom lese malého sivého vtáka.

She flew out over open water as the last light faded. Behind her, the island kept cooking its dinner underground, growing its tea leaf by leaf, and keeping a small grey bird safe in its forest.