Coulourful Running Tights

Sipicciano

I never knew which country they come from fairy tales. An intense color and full of red and brown gradient breaks on the road that leads from Tean in Galluccio and goes up to Rocca d'Evandro. Earth and sky are one up here where the pastel foxes do not usually cross the street. Autumn is in the amber of the leaves and remains even after the fall itself. The leaves do not betray the season only in Spring. The wet wood with frost you got stuck on him and does not go away even if you shake the clothes. Suddenly, the trail splits into two parts and one part becomes completely dark, although there is still plenty of light. The junction almost suggests not turn, inspires awe and evokes images. We arrive at the village of Sipicciano if there is intimidated by the shadow of thick bushes and there it climbs through the brown earth and moss and amber attacked by the chestnut trees. Sipicciano is not very high but it is a town isolated and lonely. Suddenly you reach a square with a big lime tree. All'imrovviso just like the big bad wolf. And only then he realizes he arrived. The lime Sipicciano is like a torn cloth in the wind atop the tower of a castle like a king who sits on his throne undisturbed, overlooking the unique village square, surrounding the portal of the beautiful seventeenth century church. Around the parish roads intertwine the timid and restrained, which go up and sometimes die in front of a door or a few steps. A
Sipicciano no more war, but every so often to kill time, happen to hear the roar of the shells and the dull sound of gunfire. Sipicciano has the face of a small child who does not care about the noise and rest undisturbed despite the noise and crowds. A
Sipicciano the wind suddenly came out and she has not return. In the alleys kissed by some tuff teaches marble recalls the famous people of this small plot of land, a bishop who emigrated to Australia and some artists around Europe. Many have left and are in a very few get to Sipicciano. In countries with celebrity is that you get a passport with the departure to become famous if you're going and leave to others the hope of return. No one knows this country because no one is perfect. Sipicciano is a shadow which is separate from the wall, peered because it is hidden among the very old chestnut, it is shy and does not know to be a beautiful village. Here the trees are equal to the stones, the sun looks like the profile of the asphalt and the life at home is something that remains linked to the imagination of an everyday life that is always the same. The streets of Sipicciano resemble a face frowning and pouting, are the wrinkles and brown calloused hand that has never stopped digging the earth. Something
me out, almost takes me by the hand outside the country, among the dark leaves, ordered the wood blocks and bricks in a row. The barns, glinting in the sun, in front of a group of farms, just before the country and a tractor in front of me leads to two farmers fields. The cliff has the voice of the forest and the profile of the big bad wolf that just shows to me from behind, and that when you turn me smile.