Clicking, it rings. Lithuania, Hill of Crosses.

Until I arrived at the Hill of Crosses, I thought I understood what a graveyard was.

Šiauliai, Lithuania.
The Hill of Crosses.

The hill is completely buried in crosses.
Large crosses.
Small crosses.
Wooden crosses.
Metal crosses.
Tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands.
Everything is a cross.

It was overwhelming.
I approached.

The wind blew.
A clicking sound echoed.
The crosses were bumping into each other.
Click, click.
The sound of metal crosses touching.

The wind blows again.
Clatter, clatter.
Many crosses sway all at once.
The sounds overlap.

Chime, chime.
A cross with a small bell rings.

Clang, clang.
Large metal crosses collide.

The wind does not stop.
The sound continues to ring.

Click.
Clatter.
Chime.
Clang.

It is a mysterious sound.
A sacred sound.
And, a slightly eerie sound.

I walk between the crosses.
Crosses at my feet, too.
Crosses before my eyes.
Wherever I look, there are crosses.
Crosses that people have placed here, filled with prayers.

Since the nineteenth century.
Resistance against the Russian Empire.
Resistance against the Soviet Union.

Even though they were destroyed many times, they were erected again.
And now, here, there are hundreds of thousands of crosses.

The wind blows again.
Click, clatter, chime.
The sound resonates.
It is as if it were the sound of prayer.

I descend the hill and look at the Hill of Crosses from afar.
The wind is still blowing.
I can hear the sound faintly.
Click, click, click.

An unforgettable sound.

—Ah, once again, a soliloquy in a strange foreign land.