This is the land of silence and wind
that smells of millennium of history,
wet once from the salty Alto Adriatico sea
with its tide puddle between swarm of insects.
This is the land crossed from via Annia
that lengthened toward the august capital,
shined by St. Mark
and Teodoro di Aquileia mosaics.
This is the land of great reclamations,
of idro-arch of triumph, of green valley of war
along the Fiume Rosso banks.
It’s the land of reeds,
where Ernest Hemingway still wanders.
This is the land that extends
until disappear to the feet of the blue mountains,
where the sky flows and filled
of perfumes and tastes of fire, bread and wine.