During a voyage, here is a curious mushroom. Normal, we are in the Dordogne!

It should not be awaked… It is quite quiet, far from the agitation of the world and the men…


sg5_001Celà gives me desire for making you a gift: a history drawn from a work of Mr Maurice guingand:

Song of stars

In this night there, time did not exist any more.

No wind, not of noise. Only the growing clearness of the dawn made the rocks of surrounding darker.

In a circular valley, bathed orange light, an open crater whose intensity of the interior black made it possible to suppose the worrying depth.

Very close to this crater, on a monticule, a large dark, right stone like a menhir. Its silhouette was detached perfectly on clearness from surrounding grass and its shade moved there slowly, plunging what it covered in mysterious purple.

Further, with ground, close to the crater, another large stone, punt this time, shone like a broad blade or a giant mirror looking at the sky.

The large raised stone, hard contours of a beautiful dark blue, resembled the remote vestiges that unknown civilizations pointed towards the sky.

The more clearness went up, the more contours softened. It resembled now a human form which would have taken a large stone dress to cross without fear the awaited centuries. Then it took more precise forms, moved slowly; was turned over, like a petrified golem whose weights and the long alarm clock would have slowed down the gyration.

The metamorphosis is achieved gradually. Its last hard aspects were based and evaporated in a luminous halation.

It is a woman who was now still impressed stiffness of her sandstone sarcophagus, taking again life little by little. A large dress blue-black, color of the firmament under stars, covered it very whole, a shawl dissimulated its head and its fair shoulders and some wicks escaped towards the light.

Of face, there was not. Only two phosphorescent greenish gleams replaced the eyes and animated this face of vacuum.

Its arms moved somewhat and its two hands, long, fine, blanchâtres, slipped on the stiff folds of its dress. A growing murmur left its person then, taking more precise sounds to form words than the morning breeze carried.

“I of am meurée fixed taking into consideration star, said it, I was placed close to the mouth of the ground to hear his song and to listen to the music without end of the stars which surround us.

The movement has its rate/rhythm, its light, its melody and the vacuum its symphony. I was maintained there since centuries in a hard and cold body for an enchantment of my spirit. My partner, lengthened in grass, is made to hear and me to see and we can be complementary.

Now, times came. I can speak and I want to reveal well what I know. But that nobody seeks to see my face, or with the reconnaitre. I am that which remains incréee, that which was continued during millenia and that my coat of girl of the mountain dissimulated.

Part of my people still sleeps, inert in these heights. The other part is disseminated on the face of the ground, in as many sensitive beings. Some became useful things; others of the glorious things, others finally of the crowned things.

I.e. that each one of our pieces had only the language that the man agreed to give him. But it is as by the fault of the man and its ignorance as others are lost or wasted.

You point out ego.

Then you will learn how to live the stones, those which are raised in the mornings of North, those which one piled up under the more limpid skies, those which are carved for dawns softer.

You will have to seek their number and mine and that of my partner who still sleeps. “

While it murmured thus, the edge of the crater had become a large white circle and, slowly towards the east, the sun started its daily race.

The murmur began again.

“In your successive civilizations, there always were men who knew the mysteries of the walk of the world. They had fingers to determine them, to appear the symbols. They had stones for engraving there. Number came the sign, then sign the symbol and, later, the figure.

By the voice of the man, the number took a sound, then a range and finally a song. In this song, there was a rate/rhythm and all that caused a resonance, resonance of the heart of the man on the heart of nature, through the heart of the stones and this in order to be included/understood by the heart of the gods.

And the gods sent on ground of the fairies to guide the men towards marvellous perpetual. These fairies were women, but these women were dreams.

It plait with the man to revive these dreams, it plait to him to join these fairies, because these fairies sleep in the stone.

And these stones were the first médiums of the man towards creation and his harmony. “ 

It is in a weak breath that the last words disappeared. A sudden gleam was done in the green valley, spouting out above cîmes.

The eyes of the woman disappeared and a light fog leaving its empty face, like the morning dew, evaporated gently in the tepidity of the first rays of the sun.

One had been able to distinguish a smile from an unutterable softness and an inexpressible joy like a take-off towards a mysterious call. Volutes of these vapors matutinales, dew of the philosophers, stones of wise, were absorbed closely in their lively rise.

It did not remain soon any more, at the edge of the always dark crater, that a large stone solidified in the ground indicating the mysteries of a time.

Other stones will be other femmes.il may be that one of them, Venus hyperborean or girl of khéops, prêtrese of the sun or odalisque Eastern returned at the edges of the blue sea food all with its crystal memory a reminiscence of passed and a vibration of the future, like emerald in the middle of the red pinks.

The number will be perhaps cold for him, but it will also know that its shade is that of the mystery which veils the things and make them truer.

Knowledge brings a joy and it is this joy which we try to share.

Maurice Guingand