Colony

Maraid watches her son, James, striding out across the grass, a bottle of milk for each of their visitors in hand. her mother-in-law still knits socks for men who will never wear them. The visitors are here to paint, to record, to celebrate - so they say - this island and its purity, the language all but vanished across the water.

Maraid il urmareste pe fiul ei, James, iesind cu pasi mari peste iarba, cu cate o sticla de lapte pentru fiecare dintre vizitatorii lor in mana. soacra ei inca tricoteaza sosete pentru barbati care nu ii vor purta niciodata.