Silva da Vulva

A Prayer to the Forest of Creation

In the beginning was the breath of the forest.
A sigh between the hills,
where the light fell golden
upon the brow of the earth.

I drove through morning mist and thoughts,
the trees waved to me like old friends.
The roads wound
through the green of memory,
and somewhere behind the hills
a castle whispered stories
of loyalty and comfort.

In the potato house the air smelled of warmth,
of bratwurst, beer, and remembrance.
Red beets like little crowns,
honey cress like a prayer.
The laughter that caught between the beams
was the laughter of the earth itself,
which nourished us, quietly and kindly.

Then evening on the terrace,
the Wartburg, distant and shining,
a silent eye in the dark.
We stood there,
two people in the autumn of the year,
illuminated by the light
and by life itself.

But in the morning—
the forest opened.
And between the green waves,
in the hollows and dips of the land,
there she lay:
the Silva da Vulva,
the sacred form of the earth,
soft, breathing, receiving.

Moss like velvet,
water like a silver breath.
Saplings, tender and round,
like the fingers of creation itself.
There, in that hollow,
the Creator had smiled,
not as lord,
but as lover.

I thought:
this is what the world looks like
when God dreams.
Not male, not female,
but both in a gentle embrace,
supremely radiant in its joy of life.

And the wind brushed over the leaves
like a hand across a brow.
And I knew:
the earth is body,
the bodies are earth,
and everything breathes in one great,
gentle rhythm.

I stood still,
laid my hand on a trunk,
and whispered:
Thank you, great silent mother.
Thank you, breathing world.
Thank you, Silva da Vulva,
forest of divine feminine power.

Silva da Vulva – Second Song
Of the Breath of Return

As we stepped out of the Dragon’s Gorge,
the world had grown quiet.
Only the dripping of water
from the green walls,
and the rustling of a bird
shaking itself once more with joy.

I looked at him;
peace lay in his eyes.
Not the grand, loud peace
that promises everything will be well—
but that small, quiet one
that feels like a stone in the hand:
warm, round, and simply there.

We hardly spoke.
It was as if the trees
had said all that needed saying.
The air smelled of moss and reconciliation,
of the sense
that healing is not a destination
but a movement—
a quiet regrowth.

Later, in the car,
we drove in silence,
the light playing on the windshield
like dancing water.
Then I knew:
it was good to go on.
Good to seek the path
no navigation knows,
because it does not lie on asphalt
but between two hearts
learning again
simply to be.

When we returned to the world,
to the noise, the cities, the traffic jams,
I carried the Silva da Vulva within me.
Like an inner glow,
a reminder
that creation is everywhere—
even in the traffic lights,
in the voices,
in the rain on the asphalt.

I thought:
perhaps that is the secret.
That we must go away
to recognize
that everything is already there.
That the forest is not outside,
but within us,
waiting,
breathing,
green.

And when I now think of that evening,
of the light on the Wartburg,
of the little drink and the scent of sauerkraut,
of the soft rustling of old book pages,
then I know:
the world is a body,
and every glance,
every touch,
every love
is a prayer.

Silva da Vulva – Third Song
Song of Thanks to the Earth

Now, as the day declines,
everything grows quiet within me.
Only the distant humming of the world
and the steady beating of my heart.
I sit at the window,
and the sky carries the color
of warm breath and memory.

I think of the forest.
Of the green skin of the earth
I caressed with my gaze,
of the water that sang,
of the moss that taught me
that softness is not weakness.

I think of you, old, wise world,
you who carry us
even when we stumble,
you who bloom
even when we forget to give thanks.

In your lines I recognize myself.
In your hollows my longing,
in your trees my spine,
in your hills my breathing.
I am your child,
and you are my mother,
my father,
my beloved,
my all.

I see again the light over Eisenach,
the Wartburg,
shining like a lantern out of time.
I smell the mashed potatoes,
feel the wood of the sofa beneath my hands,
hear the quiet rustling of book pages.
Everything was there,
and everything has remained.

For what we behold with love
stays alive.
What we transform into wonder
returns to us as peace.

So I thank you, creation,
for the colors of autumn,
for laughter,
for silence,
for the courage that grows quietly.

And if one day
I walk again through your forests,
I will know:
The Silva da Vulva is not a place.
It is a state of the heart.
A quiet accord with life.
A breath between earth and sky.

I bow.
And the earth whispers: I am you.