LUCANIA
I know it well this rustling of reeds on arid slopes disputed by the landslide and these lean rocks where winds and mists hold tryst with the silences that weigh at evening upon the weary step of mules. The flowing water is scarce and the valleys are parched split wide, made of clay. From here the herds migrate as autumn deepens toward the coastal plains plunging their steps into the marshes. From here malaria passed through the small stations on the Basento squalid, marked by oleanders. With us, the rock-rose is a flower that trembles with the basil on worm-eaten windows in a faded terracotta pot and rosemary grows in the meadows on the embankments of the roads beside the molehills. With us, the hawk and the owl rest marking our death. With us, the world is far away, but there is a scent of earth and acacia and the bread has the taste of grain.