Poems

C’è il rigore e l’energia che contraddistinguono i vignaioli sulle schiene di terra: il loro andare è silenzioso, preciso e veloce nel passo in bilico, ogni giorno scrivono musica e ritmo nella seguenza del filare.

C’è il rigore e l’energia che contraddistinguono i vignaioli sulle schiene di terra: il loro andare è silenzioso, preciso e veloce nel passo in bilico, ogni giorno scrivono musica e ritmo nella seguenza del filare.

The Moscato grape features all the sweetness of the world, all the beauty of the women of these hills, shaped by strength and sensuality, who know little about rest, who trundle alone quickly in the row and dream on during the dance each summer.

It is an invitation to pause and reflect, to rummage into the past, in the memory of time that enshrines all the daily toils of the men in the vineyards, the hardships of a tough existence faced with great dignity, while they were building a landscape for the eyes of the world.

Ancient vineyards know how to tell the story of the Resistance, they were trenches and death camps for the fighters in the name of freedom, they had blood-flavoured harvests, orphans of many young soldiers.

The green shoots are the fat body of the row and leave no escape, they take your arms and your patience, every time, when in early summer the sap is rising and there are endless lengths to tame.

The row bears the weight of gold colour fruits, a juicy hedge welcomes the hands of the harvest, the catch that slips through and empties the grapes just like a quick act of liberation that comes at the end of its annual journey.

There is the rigor and the energy distinguishing the winemakers on the slopes of land, they trundle along silently, precise and fast in their poised step, every day they write music and rhythm in the sequence of the row.