You smile in silent ageless reverie. Your head is crowned, but no-one remembers your name any more. Who were you? How did you came here to the cold north? Who saved you when you were deposed from your high standing?

You were once worshipped and for generations men and women would ask you to convey their troubles to a god. They trusted in you. They had faith in you. Did you serve them well?

The paint on your cloak has faded away, but your beauty is undisputed even after centuries of neglect. Once you were an oak on Gotland. Did you see viking raiders when you were young? Did you bear wittness to the coming of the new religion you would come to serve after your death?  Once your green leaves flowed in the wind. Did lovers meet under your branches? Did they share their dreams and worries with you? Did they have sad, or happy stories? Over six hundred years ago they felled the tree that you were and a master artist carved you into an image of a saint. The tree was no more and life was taken from you, but humans came to give value to your beauty and what you had come to represent symbolically, by the hand and craft of the artisan. An unflawed -allmost divine – feminine beauty.

Who was the saint you represented? What were her actions in life, that she came to be revered by so many? Who knows? What is left has no more the same symbolical meaning, but still you are a marvel to look at. Your value is no less, though it has once again transformed. Today you remind us of our history, though we do not know much of your own history.