Since dawn you can hear dull sounds from the kitchen; pots and pans, women working to prepare lunch; then you can hear the children, in the open air, chasing Rosina and Isotta, the two little goats of the family. Men, far from the house to control the vineyard, which timidly sprouts, follow the constant rhythm of their daily work. And the challenge of the grafts, to establish who the best creator of original grafts.
The days pass slow and fast; slow, infinitely slow, at sunset, when everything begins to be quiet in the dusk, leaving room for the night sounds of the earth; fast, inevitably fast, in the morning, when the threat of the burning sun, speeds up the rhythm, stimulates a frantic dance of ritual activities, repeated day after day.
While in the renowned cafes of the city business agreements are concluded, secret loves start, political relations are established, around the Oak, in the open countryside, everything stops, with the exciting essence of the long-awaited Arabic Wine. And suddenly everything seems quiet, clear and limpid, and like in a black and white film, you can hear the sound of the coffee maker, the flowing water, a growing smell and the women's rising call.
Gestures, sounds, colours, smells are confused, giving birth to a unique, infinitesimal moment. It's time for a cup of coffee that, now as then, consolidates bonds, breaks the ice, joins smiles, encourages the soul. Now as then, coffee becomes an ambassador of thoughts, confessions, accusations; a silent "sorry", a "thanks" hidden in the eyes from whom, like Torrecone, conceals himself behind his strong and despotic image, but at the same time welcoming and protective, and from whom a voice seems to whisper: learn from me, because I never learned.