Cent et Un Mots par Jour

Outside, the wind whistles between the high peaks crowned with ribbons of clouds. But in that old sanctuary, smelling of wood and spices, the only sound is the quiet humming of the monks. Eyes closed and frozen in time and space, they look inside their soul and talk to it. Their meditation will last hours or even days, during which no food will touch their tongue, no water will wet their lips. The moon will chase after the sun, and the sun will be back again the next day, but the room has no window. The light comes from candles that a boy changes discretely each day. The air the monks inhale between two prayers tastes of peace and serenity.

Claire Annovazzi