I have remembered this land by drinking itswines and I have smiled at the men and women who have enabled me to drink it. I have listened to what they had to ecount, their hopes and drems, their ambitions, I was moved when they declared their dedication to the soil they spoke of their Ribolla Gialla, of when thei brought it, just picked, to the markets where it would be sold, when - alter and riper - the berries would be eaten like candy by their children, and when, later still, dried and shrivelled, it would be used for a wine for family feasts and gatherings: in each and every wine I drank I saw the furrows and wrinkles, the roughened skin of their faces, I felt the quiver and leap of their heartbeat, I have touched the pale roughenened skin of their souls. Each of them had placed their entire life into their wine, the intimate details of an existence made of the song and the beating of bird wings, the woodland sounds, the traces which had been left. In each and every wine are the imperceptible silence of the opening of buds, the flowers which burst, the first grape bunches, born small and later to swell, ripen, and become liquid gold, rich in essences, flavors, the fragrance of flowers and fruit. And the buzzing of the cellars which slowly wanes until it expires in a sweet complaint and a delicate sight. This is the whisper which accompanies the life of a wine until it explodes in the glass and let us listen, see, scent, sip - now cleanly, clearly, in every minute detail - the colors, the perfume, and the sounds of its existence.