"... Psiloritis seemed like a stone forest, for centuries. Now, in the cracks of the rocks, nature rolled up its sleeves and began to thicken the ranks of trees. The thousand year old oaks and young Asfentamos began to cover up our sky. The bells of sheeps, the delicate goats, the pigeons in the caves, the "sigardelia", the "arfichtaloi", the queen partridge, the traveled tops that our shepherds have gently stepped on, the silent "Mitata" full of memories, all are jewelry to the chest of Psiloritis. Trees traveling, trees that do not dream, that host the moon in their branches, are here to remind us that we are not the center of the world but an equal part of creation. Sing the forest, this form of life that we owe our breath."