The stone becomes a breath, a whisper on the lip of the ancients.

From its rugged edges emerge stories of the past, etched by the hands of time, wandering down valleys, lost in memories.

And still, trees weave their labyrinth of dreams, a sanctuary for the quiet, as shadows breathe the lushness of the spring.

Each turn of leaf, each caressed frond, rises to touch the sky that bears witness, where roots drink deeply, and the heart of earth sings.

Behold, in this stillness, we find our essence, our place in the weave, the rendering of nature’s tale.

• Eugène Guillevic