In the hush between raindrops and stone, the hills lean inward, as if listening for a voice that never returned.
Low clouds drag their grief across the shoulders of the land, a soft lament in vapor, layered like old letters, unsent.
The trees don't speak— but their silence is fluent, a language of absence etched in shadow and bark.
The sorrow here doesn't weep, it settles in the terrain like ash from a fire no one recalls lighting.
A tragedy, perhaps, of the forgotten— the slow erosion of faces from stone, the fading of footsteps into deep green moss.
And still, the wind carries a lament— a breath, a whisper, a suggestion that the past is not past, it merely sleeps beneath the skeins of brooding, hung cloud.
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A dedication to Agnes de Lods’ beautiful, "Raindrops in Schreiberhau" .... a modern artwork of this tradition of verse that echoes the patina of the past. Her lines:
“I drink the peace, I eat the rustle of the wind, Absorbing the steady pattern of raindrops…”
…feel like a continuation of the region’s artistic soul—where nature, memory, and longing converge.