An old yew - a gnarled, almost forgotten tree, many of which once grew before they were almost wiped out. Its trunk is dark, twisted, almost black - marked by the wind, shaped by the weather, aged by centuries. If you look closely, you will recognize faces in the bark: ancient creatures that have carved themselves into the grain as if they were part of the tree itself.

 

The yew is more than just a source of wood or a botanical relic. It is a living being with a language of its own - silent, secret, audible only to those who can really listen. Perhaps it has seen more than we can ever imagine: Wars, silences, the coming and going of generations.

 

Despite its toxicity, it radiates a quiet dignity. Its trunk tells stories that no one can put into words - only in faces that peer out of the bark like shadows. It sees us. And it remembers.