Isolated lands

A long walk on a white path, spreading its smell of wet wood over the heath with wild grass. The forest asks for silence, the winter wind does not want to hear anything
and Mother Nature enters the scene to languish on a bed of watery humus. The euphoria of the bird cannot escape the melancholy of the distressed tree,
arms stretched towards the sky. The Quercy Blanc becomes numb under a blanket of lead, the light goes away without saying anything, the place has never refused asylum,
all that remains is to strike a pose. The altitude is derisory, there is no shortage of oxygen, only the autumn wind licks at the windmill's slates, it is the altimeter's rest.
The pilgrim passes on his way, the shell flutters against the backpack without disturbing the tempo of the chestnut stick. Santiago de Compostela is still far away.