The memory of humanity is the mountains… And this mountain here has much to remember. But how can one make the mountain speak… How to describe what your soul hears when you wander and tread.

Poetry, music…

Thus they have tried, for centuries now, those who spoke with this land.

But the air cannot be described. Nor the flight of the bird. Nor the smell of the damp earth.

These images here are nothing else but small and fleeting glimpses of this wonder. What can one catch sight of in the light of lightning… Specks small from the infinite mosaic of the world… Imprints on the mountain of God, on one of the mountains He chose to bless.

On our own Psiloritis!