Those large, strong hands, full of calluses and cracks from fatigue and time, they are the hands that know how to caress like no other. The hands that like to brush through grain like a feather.

Quelle a cui piace sentire la peluria di una foglia, di uno stelo, di un petalo. quelle che con tenerezza tengono tra le mani un bocciolo, come fosse un piccolo animale indifeso.

The hands that chase away pests, pull up out weeds and dig the earth with age-old patience.

The hands that shield the sun beating down on the hills; the hands that, when intrigued, are cupped to hear the sounds… of the wind in the trees and the grass. Of the ducks, the crickets… the frogs… here there are still frogs


The hands that collect cherry plums and apples from the trees. The hands that only tear the last basil leaves to make sure they’ll grow back. The hands lay the table at the crack of dawn, have lunch like clockwork, and dinner just before laying down after a long day. The hands that pass you a piece of bread or a glass of wine with a smile.



Photo – Cristiano Casolari