The sound of the tree is born of a sustained fragility, of that thread-root whose warp is the poetics of an instant in which nests the song of life.
The feathers can be the cradle of a hypnotic dream, Hip-no’s lat, close to the death of Tanatos, his twin brother; or they can be victorious wings, like those of Niké, the god-dess of Victory. Wings that also weave the nests of flight to which they sing. The chrysalis stops the moment: it is present, it is an urn-incubator shelter for the newborn. But it is a polysemic nest: it is a continent, it is content.
Music springs from the tree’ chest, feathers are born form the roots-branches, salvia germinates from the dead chrysalis, life emanates from the stone, natural means are reversed and emptiness is transformed into a creative generator. It is a song that brings us closer to humans from the emotions that unite us to life, and thus make us resilient.