Window on the village


Windows are the eyes of our houses, life flows beyond the glass, the color of the sky changes the sun enters, the air, the noises, we see who passes and who arrives, we meditate waiting for the moon … The window The red rose slowly slips, for an interminable instant it is air, then he rocks on his body, dyeing it with its bright color. The hand that left it is now resting on the glass, streaked by rain and gaze, under the forehead resting the tears, of love that cannot exist. Short excerpt of poetry by De Bernardi Pompeo
Altidona Window on the village Photo and Copyright By Baldassarri Giuseppe Travel is the traveler in Italy itravelinitaly.com


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