Stories Told Through Symbols 🌿

The mist before me is so dense you’d hesitate to step into it. And it’s from this very mist that a white serpent emerges.

It glides through the air with elegance. Its body ripples, disappears into the whiteness, then appears again… and the fog slowly begins to part.

When it finally clears, a wanderer stands before me. Tired, dusty, walking slowly across the wasteland. All around is nothing but desert—except for one small miracle: in the distance, an oasis shimmers. The wanderer brightens, quickens his pace, and heads straight toward the city.

At the gate, a guard greets him with a smile so wide it almost looks suspicious. He hands him a clean coat. “Only in this, sir.” The wanderer may enter only if he washes and changes. He obeys and steps inside.

And behold! The city is alive. Music, singing, flowers, colors. A celebration is underway, 

and people are carrying a long white paper serpent on poles. 

They wave the poles, imitating its movement as if the serpent were flying above their heads. This joyful procession winds through the entire marketplace. Everywhere, enticing scents and stalls filled with food. They offer him meat, wine, more wine—the kind of moment when you’ve got a cup in your hand and your pockets full of treats. After a stretch of hunger, a full plate makes the whole world seem brighter.

Refreshed, the wanderer packs supplies into his satchel and heads back to the gate. But the guards refuse to let him out. It turns out entering was free—but leaving? That wasn’t part of the plan. The road into the city had been open, but now he’s become its captive.

He roams the streets, muttering that he should have known: whenever a city welcomes you too warmly, it’s never for free. He asks people for help, but no one knows anything. And then, in the square, among the paper serpents and dancers, he sees it—a real white serpent gliding through the air toward him. Its long, glowing body weaves between people, unseen by them. He feels it brush against his coat and is frozen with fear. Then he notices a young gypsy woman watching him.

“You saw it?” she asks quietly.

The wanderer nods.

“Then come.”

She leads him from the square into a dark alley where gypsies dance around a fire, playing and singing.

When they notice the wanderer, all singing and merriment stop at once. Only the crackling fire remains, and every gaze fixes on him. 

From the crowd steps a young gypsy man. 

There is something deep in his eyes—something that forces a person to stand upright, whether they want to or not.

The young gypsy begins clapping a rhythm, joined by the others.

“Jump over the fire,” he commands.

All eyes bore into him, as if trying to hypnotize. The wanderer runs forward and, as if in a trance, leaps through the flames—only to regret it instantly. He feels ridiculous for falling for the oldest trick in the book. His trousers smolder, his leg burns, and the gypsies laugh. All but one. That one waves his hand—and everything vanishes. They are in absolute darkness. 

No fire, no city, no gypsies.
Only the wanderer and the gypsy with a long chain.

They see only each other. The gypsy crouches like a wild cat ready to strike.

The fight is brief and brutal—the chain wraps around the wanderer’s neck, burning, tightening. He struggles in vain to break free. He can’t breathe, and life is slipping away. The chain cuts deep into his skin… and suddenly he sees his own head rising upward. Yet to his astonishment, he can still see, still perceive the gypsy standing right before him. The gypsy waves his hand— and they are back at the fire.

The gypsies clap rhythmically, dancing around the flames, and the headless body joins their joyful dance. It leaps over the flames again, gliding effortlessly. In that moment, a new head emerges upon its shoulders. The gypsy smiles, satisfied.

There are no walls around them now, no city—just open space. 

Before them appear two paths: one red, one blue.

“Choose,” the gypsy says.

“I don’t know—each leads somewhere else!” the wanderer protests.

“In the end, they’ll bring you to the same place,” the gypsy smiles. “To yourself.”

And indeed—the wanderer sees the paths merge in the distance. Red and blue blending into violet.

The gypsy waves his hand one last time, and all the gypsies disappear. As if they had never been there. Only the crackling fire remains, standing in the middle of an empty street.

The wanderer returns to the marketplace changed—lighter, straighter, as if the fire were still flickering in his eyes.

The white serpent sees him again and glides toward him. 

This time, the wanderer is unafraid. He strokes its smooth body, and the serpent passes through him like a ring of light.

At the gate, the desert is gone. Trees whisper, meadows bloom, and the air smells of lilac. The guard steps aside with a deep bow. Now the wanderer may leave anytime he wishes.

But the wanderer turns back. He sees the sun softly illuminating the crowns of trees with purple blossoms. He sees the white serpent drifting among the people, unnoticed.

“It blossoms beautifully here. I’ll stay,” he says calmly.

The guard shrugs. “Lilacs thrive here… but they always fade.”

“I know,” the wanderer smiles. “I’ll wait for them to bloom again. And in the meantime… I’ll tell people the story of the white serpent. Maybe one day they’ll see it too.”