A Turkish Legend

Aysel lived on the Eastern ridge of Sivrihisar. She had no sons. She waited for her husband Sevilen to return home from the pasture. It was dusk and the grey sky suffocated the barley fields so the wispy ends of the tassels disappeared. Her hands were worried so she made some soup. She crushed very many lentils, for Sevilen would be hungry. Her stomach was worried and so she set the soup to boil. It bubbled and popped and shook. She stirred it with a large handled wooden spoon. Her knuckles were dirty and etched like the barley stalk.
It was night and the earth made itself ashen. Aysel moved about the shadows. Her eyes shone silver-specked. She knew Sevilen would not come home. Her heart knew this. She went to the pot of lentil soup and lifted it from her elbows. She began to gulp it down. The soup sprang from her eyes; it streamed down the ridges of her high cheeks. She wept the soup, the ungiven gift, it gushed forth with terrible might. She cried the soup and it flowed from her house down the Eastern ridge of Sivrihisar, making ferocious ridges in the land. She sobbed and it scattered Sevilen's sheep in the pasture, fluffy specks, black or white of no consequence to the night. Aysel drank all the soup and the bottom of the pot glowed silver-specked. She was dry, like plucked barley. It forever rains lentils on the Eastern ridge.

You might not get it, but that's okay, because I had fun writing it.