I find myself in the Celone valley, standing still on the edge of the provincial road 130 which winds through rolling hills. The sunset looms and the darkness, like a cloak, slowly covers even my shadow that lengthens turning me into a dark, shapeless giant…
In front of me stands a rise where the green wheat sways breaking at the foot of solitary oaks with bare branches … last remnants of an ancient history where the wood dominated, before man remodeled the landscape, initially through pastoralism and then with agriculture…
But now that the night has won its daily war with the light, the distant barking of a farm dog goes off and, as if by magic, the wounds produced by generations of men disappear, enveloped in the shadows carried by the cold wind.
Before the moon peeps through heavy clouds laden with rain, the distant flickering lights of the farms take on the forms of ancient presences and these rolling hills win the curse of time, regaining their ancient splendor of infinite empty space…

Vincenzo Rizzi