photo : when the ducks think they are gods, they transform Nelson botanical gardens in an Impressionist painting.
It was the hour of silence at dusk. I ask him: « Who do you think you are? » In his eyes, deep as the secrets of the ocean, a spark of defiance: « I think I am God », in his firm, inflexible, unwavering voice « like old stones ». But I remain silent, for the gods are many and faith, well, is ephemeral. The wind whispered through the sheets stories of forgotten deities, of power lost in the sands of time. And you, a mere mortal, enveloped in your grandeur, did not touch my soul. I have seen gods fall, I have seen their temple crumble, and your proclamation, good Heavens, was but a whisper in the vastness of the night.