The Fjord of Furore: a gentle light of waves among sullen rocks.
A gorge smelling of whitewash and strawberries.
The houses in the hamlet have grown slender:a handful of monazzenes nailed to the cliff.
Amid caressing breezes the sea falls asleep at the shore.
You can count the stones on the beach.
The voice of the wind dresses the mountain. Enchanted rocks in the night of the Janare.
Furitan women, sacks of grain on their shoulders,climb up the steep petingoles
They carry the sun on the steps, a thousand steps higher.
Wander the gulls aimlessly. They skim the motherly folds.
The winged genie screeches among the depths of great silence.
She shouts her joy of living above this sea of mother-of-pearl,
Atop the masts of sailing ships, toward wide, clear horizons.
Hear the echo of the owl and the tawny owl in the night of mystery.
Wandering Odysseus, lost among the cliffs, cries out the anxiety of his return to Ithaca.
His cry becomes song, sweet melody.
The Sirens respond, incredulous to have heard.
In the early evening a swarm of bats invades the valley.
They leave their rocky shelters, flying like mad with joy
To swallow tavan, mosquitoes, gnats.
The Coast is land, it is sea, but it is also sky,music of wings, home of angels, radiant,
Pregnant with salt and iodine,
Where graceful creatures meet in the sun, love each other in the wind.
The Divine is also this: ethereal, hidden in the clouds,
Where the inner and the outer meet at the margins of history.

Luigi Veronelli