There is a city built upon a rock so hard that no one has ever managed to put down roots there without first asking permission. It stands in a geological transition zone, rich in granite. The ancients said it was strong, resilient, proud – and so it was. No wind can topple it, no change passes through it without being measured, stamped.

There was a time when, despite the harshness of the soil, flowers bloomed in the most unlikely places. Between a bakery and a chemist’s, unexpected colours sprang up; at the back of a warehouse, nameless species grew; in a narrow alleyway, small clusters of blooms drew more people than any official garden. They had no permit, but they were alive. Before I met her, I was told that there was a man who tried to solve the problem by brute force: he pulled plants up by the roots, covered flowerbeds, left the earth in darkness as if believing that, without light, desire too would fade away. For a while, the city seemed sterile. 

Then a gardener in white gloves appeared. He claimed to love the city’s plants, lamented the neglect left by the previous gardener, and so decided to take care of everything. He fenced off the flowerbeds, arranged the species in rows, catalogued every leaf, set schedules for the sun and measurements for the water. Nothing would die from lack of care, nor would anything grow outside the plan. The plants began to bloom again, but they no longer knew how to grow on their own. And the garden, impeccable, came to be admired not for its life, but for its order. And so, without destroying the garden, he achieved a questionable feat: he tamed it.

In the heart of this city, everything began to function like a geometric garden, pruned to perfection, where every path had been mapped out even before the first step was taken. To traverse it, it was not enough simply to have the desire to plant; one had to meet certain requirements, align one’s intentions, translate that impulse, and receive approval. The gardener then reactivated large glazed greenhouses, controlled environments where temperature, light and humidity were measured with precision. To ensure that every plant could thrive there, he formulated criteria.

People then began to stroll through these revitalised gardens, following designated routes, attending seasonal openings and scheduled events. They told one another that the city was more vibrant, better organised and more accessible. And in a way, that was true. One had the impression of a vast bloom - or, at the very least, what one might call a visible bloom.

But something strange began to happen. The plants started to resemble one another. Not in form, but in the purpose of their blossoming. They all pointed in the right direction, all displayed the expected colours, all opened according to a comprehensible logic. There was no disorderly growth, no excessive fragrance, no out-of-place thorns. The surprise turned into a miscalculation. The city then filled with authorised pollinators. There was still flight, there was still exchange, but before each crossing a ‘co-produced’ stamp was required. Without it, the air seemed thin.

No plant there remained long enough to put down deep roots. The blooms appeared as fleeting phenomena: they opened, were observed, and were soon replaced by new, equally controlled species. There was no time for adaptation to the soil, for unpredictable growth, for continuity. Each flower was born fully grown, classified, categorised, and vanished before it could set seed. Thus, the city eventually became a garden visited by other migratory butterflies: beautiful, but always just passing through. 

Every day I think about the contradictions of this city. I have no interest in uprooting these gardens. Some criticise them for being too controlled, too predictable, but even so, something blooms within them. Carefully, I continue to craft ways of existing within it, bearing in mind that something even more dangerous is approaching, something of a different nature: gardeners in red gloves, impatient with any form of growth that does not suit them. Gardeners who do not wish to prune or rearrange, but simply to clear the ground, for to them there is no difference between what is tamed and what is wild: everything that blooms is suspect. In the cities they have passed through, they leave no flowerbeds untouched, only barren earth. 

What is certain is that in the underground archives—forgotten, yet not forbidden—there remain traces of what the land once was. Seeds stored in makeshift envelopes, imperfect records of past blooms, species that are difficult to cultivate. Ultimately, perhaps the greatest difficulty of this city I inhabit is to provide enough desire to create roots of affection, of belonging. Something beyond a tidy garden or a wild plot of land, but an underground network of connections that escape the hurried gaze, emerging from almost invisible alleys, blossoming with lives that refuse to be categorised, that still believe in other ways of living together. 

The stone does not yield easily. The city stands tall, proud of its title: Invicta. But, in its silence, I continue to wonder whether it was shaped by its own strength, or because it has not yet been allowed to be touched by a true spring.

The text maintains the author's choices, both in terms of spelling variations and stylistic expression.