"SAINT MARTIN The mist rises, drizzling, on the steep hills, and under the north wind the sea howls and whitens; but through the village streets, from the bubbling of the vats, the harsh odor of wines gladdens souls. The spit turns on the blazing logs, crackling: the hunter stands whistling at the door, gazing at flocks of black birds in the reddish clouds, migrating like exiled thoughts in the evening."
Created by d'Araprì