Making wine on Etna is an act of love, intimate and profound. And endless. Love for the places of our adulthood. Love for a land that nourishes and does not ask, that holds and does not let go and that makes everything grow that wants to stay. Harsh land of lava that does not calm down, land of magma that flows and opens and faints and tired seeks peace and becomes a stone monster and a lunar landscape that carries within it the memory of fire. We are made of the same substance as this land, we and that wine that resembles us, as if we had generated it, as if we were the fathers and not the sons: wine drunk with sun and light and the chorus of the wind in the valley, wine that has the breath of the volcano, smoke and ash together, and juicy and fragrant fruit that melts soft and surrendered, and slow and gentle caresses the senses, pregnant and delicate juice of pulp and lively and full, delight of aromas and intense and discreet scents, patient wine that lets itself be unveiled slowly and that the strong temper reserves for those who know that the time of the earth is sacred.
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