A few days ago, a boy named Marco who used to come to cut the grass in Montalcinello passed away. I had offered him a coffee at my house, to truly thank him for his passion.
Because in these semi-mountainous corners of Italy, forgotten by the State of wordsmiths, where agriculture is now a heroic act, where the night is dark and the moon shines like an ancient companion, every act of work is a gift.
Thanks to those who still care for the land, to those who keep the fields clean, to those who get up early and continue to believe it is worth doing.
Montalcinello lives also because of this: for the tenacity of those who have not stopped sowing, of those who, simply, stay.
