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Prompt

اینو به فارسی ترجمه کن  The End of the Story You know this story, Bartholomew, though you do not know all of it. I’ll tell it to you as best I can and promise to be honest in my talebearing. If I’m not, that would be all right. A story is a kind of spectacle, I think. A strange, shimmering display. How you look at it determines its meaning—it is not for me to say if belief inspired by spectacle should be counted as honest. Once, a creature lay naked upon fields of bromegrass, and the world grew around her. Her mind was full of knowledge, her limbs swollen with strength, her heart beating a contented rhythm. She looked up at the moon and the moon looked down at her and they were the same: ever-changing, always constant. But the world shifted. She, who had never been truly known, was revered, then desired. Stories echoed, and suddenly folk of the land felt entitled to her life; it was not long before they took it. Her flesh was eaten, her bones chipped away, her blood swallowed in thirsty gulps. When she cried out, the song was a minor tune. It caught the wind and has ridden it ever since. There was naught for her to do but to lay still, to wait.