"Returning, I lingered through the fields, along the rows of vines, where already some leaves, red as blood, seemed like an open wound, an ominous sore. Once the harvest is over, the leaves fall; once youth is over, love falls. Wine remains, a memory of the grapes; works remain, a memory of life; but if the shoots put forth leaves again in spring, man has only one spring and never regains his first illusions and hopes! Sad thoughts that neither I nor the harvesters had then. Who sang their stornelli carrying on their heads the baskets full of golden grapes and holding them with their bare arms, like Greek canephores."
Created by d'Araprì