Roca Vecchia
Something in the myriad blues, the sharp fresh taste of the air— This sea I know. Il Mare Adriatico. These...
Something in the myriad blues, the sharp fresh taste of the air— This sea I know. Il Mare Adriatico. These...
When the sun hides her face all day, and spring wind still bites with winter, a single glass of ruby...
Both sweet and bitter on my tongue, red seeds freshly squeezed- spremuto! to nectar in my glass. If drinking means...
Content on my bench in Lecce’s Parco Belloluogo, I tipped back my head– but leapt to my feet on seeing...