Long ago, when the sea was a lake, devoted hands planted a garden. It was surrounded by dense forests, where huge mythical beasts, not yet extinct, roamed freely. Swift rivers murmured around it. Bathed in sunlight and birdsong, the young garden flourished. Each plant seemed more beautiful than the last, a celebration of vivid colours, varied forms, rich textures and intoxicating fragrance. The thriving garden attracted the attention of many passers-by. Some would pause beneath its wide-branched trees, rest for a while, and, grateful for the shelter, continue on their journey. Others desired its beauty for themselves. They tore greedily at the plants and trampled the paths without care. After their visits, ugly wounds marked the garden. Petals were pressed into the soil, branches snapped, unripe fruit crushed underfoot. The gardeners’ caring hands patiently and lovingly revived the damaged plants, planted new ones and nurtured them until flowers filled the emptiness and the gentle hum of bees softened the silence. Yet uninvited guests forced their way in again and again, destroying what they found. Sometimes they left the garden looking like a graveyard: uprooted trunks, raw stumps and barren ground. The day came when, after yet another brutal destruction of their labour of love, the gardeners said, “Enough.” They loosened the trampled earth, replanted the ravaged beds and caressed each fragile shoot reaching towards life. Then they surrounded the garden with impenetrable thistle thickets, brambles, wild rose bushes and sea-buckthorn shrubs, hawthorns, junipers, and black locusts, forming a dense thicket of thorny, defiant plants, beautiful and impassable. The garden leafed and blossomed once more, heavy with fruit and berries. All who caught sight of it were tempted by its bright colours and enchanted by its sweetness, by the hum of bees weaving among the flowers and the birdsong in the air. It was an abundance protected by thorns. The greedy still circle, yet they cannot enter. From this day forward, the garden is open only to those who respect its order, its flourishing and the devoted labour of its gardeners. Our language is peaceful and calm. Yet we shall grow thorns in our garden. We look at the world with love and wonder. Yet we shall grow thorns in our garden. In our hearts dwell compassion and hope. Yet we shall grow thorns in our garden. We walk through the world striving to leave no harsh footprints behind us. Yet we shall grow thorns in our garden. We believe in fairy tales with happy endings, and we dream of the future. Yet we shall grow thorns in our garden.