Fermes tes jolis yeux

In a village in Belgium the earth opens up letting out the voice of a man a stone worker His fingers sculpt and carve but the flashes of stone stop at the walls of a small workshop attached to his house Each blow of his chisel rips a piece of history of conscience of struggle into oblivion Meanwhile not so far from his workshop the quarry without age without memory advances devours the surrounding houses the streets the town the roots