A lady of stone sleeps atop the peakery of the Pays Basque, each foot in a different country. Her dark hair spills in valleys carved from green, green mountains tumbling into the sea. As storm clouds scud above her tranquil profile crowned by martyrdom, dignity, and solitude, she dreams of trials suffered, won, and lost. Indeed, sometimes I wonder while walking in the valley below these mountains what she would do if she ever wakes up, breaks free of the roots that bind her, and finds her way far from the fog of the Cimmerian years that shroud her. Or will she continue to slumber, and slowly dissipate under the weight of the years until she melts into the granite core and nothing hints of the lost potential under the verdant spring grasses?
I also sometimes wonder if I’ll ever wake up.