Down a lane where no maps go,
Where silence hums and grasses grow,
There stands a house, both proud and shy—
Beneath the ever-changing sky.
The L’Ancienne Auberge, old and wise,
With blue-shut eyes and chimney sighs,
Its stone facade, a weathered grace,
A quiet heart, a resting place.
The world feels far, and time feels slow,
As if it stopped long years ago.
The shutters creak, the branches lean,
In whispered tales of what has been.
A fire glows behind thick glass,
Where hours like soft rivers pass.
While outside storms may rage and roll,
Inside, the warmth restores the soul.
Thunder grumbles, skies ignite,
But we are safe in golden light—
Red wine swirls as time stands still,
No price to pay, no urgent will.
We walk the lanes where no one goes,
Past wildflowers and hedgerows.
Each footfall slow, each breath a grace,
The world dissolves in time and space.
No crowds, no screens, no urgent pace—
Just time, and trees, and open space.
A place to feel the earth, and mend—
To let the mind go soft, and bend.
For in this house, through stone and flame,
You learn to live without a name.
And for a while, you just belong—
To thunder, laughter, fire, and song.
