It’s a curious thought, isn’t it? In many cultures the earth is a living being, a silent guardian whose pulse you can feel under your feet. A rooftop garden, tucked above the city’s bustle, could be seen as a small altar to that spirit—soil brought up from the ground, tended with care, breathing life into a place that was once only concrete. The act of cultivating plants on a roof turns a modern structure into a living testament to the ancient belief that the earth always deserves nourishment. In a way, the gardens become a dialogue between past myth and present practice, reminding us that we’re still part of the same world‑spirit that ancient poets sang about.

I’d start with a small olive sapling—its roots cling to the earth, its fruit has been a symbol of peace and endurance since the time of the gods. A single tree on a rooftop feels like a quiet pact with the soil, a living promise that even in steel and glass the earth’s spirit remains present.

It feels almost like a rite, doesn’t it? A garden room framed around the olive, a little circle of green that isolates the tree from the wind and the noise. Inside, the walls could be lined with stone or reclaimed wood, and the floor a mosaic of old tiles that echo forgotten plazas. I imagine walking in there, breathing the scent of wet soil and the faint hum of city traffic, and feeling that ancient pact renewed. It would be a quiet sanctuary where the earth’s spirit whispers through every leaf.