The hills do not speak,
but they remember.

Morning mist rolls in like an old song,
softly covering the fields
where time moves slower
and footsteps linger longer.

Stone chapels stand with tired grace,
holding the prayers of generations
in their weathered walls.

In the silence between church bells,
you can hear the breath of the land-
steady,patient,
unconcerned with hurry.

Winding paths lead nowhere and everywhere,
past apple orchards,
past stories whispered
in the folds of dialect and dusk.

Limburg does not shout.
It listens.
And in that stillness,
the tales go on.