La petite Ville; Paysages

A quiet, stone‑strewn town rises from a sea of green, its church spires cutting the sky like ancient beacons. The rhythm of distant bells drifts through crisp air, turning ordinary moments into a soft, lingering melody. Even the streets seem to hold their breath, letting silence wander from one dead alley to the next.

Beyond the town’s edges, fields of wheat spill into rivers of red poppies, their fiery blooms fighting for space with the golden grain. The narrator watches this clash of colour with wistful appreciation, sensing how the farmer sees the flowers only as weeds while the eye of a passer‑by finds a fleeting festival in their sway. Hints of lost blue‑flax and white buckwheat whisper of a richer, more varied landscape now fading from memory.

The railway station, placed far from the old centre, becomes the town’s reluctant heart. It gathers strangers, delivers the few newspapers that still reach these streets, and houses a lone shop that sells both prayer beads and the occasional book. Along the modest line that snakes toward the sea, a small train chugs past rose‑covered canals, hinting at journeys that promise both escape and return.