Ireland is a leaden grey sky on wind swept moors. It´s a sward of thin blades of grass bending before the roaring sea.
Green rocks falling sheer to the waves, where distance small seagulls chase shadows and tell forgotten stories.
It´s a fisherman's rough hand, an ancient language, and thatched cottages and fishnets to be mended during Winter nights by the fire. It´s a waiting mother, fires on the streets and inside the hearts, change and immutability. It´s the red of a lonely poppy lost in the green of the fields, a path leading nowhere, or to the whole world.
It´s freedom, choice, the world that revives in the blinding blue of the sky after the rain, dazzling light that lits everything with a green fire, in her valleys, in her woods, in her meadows that become one with the sea, and you can only guess where earth ends and the sky begins.
It´s a girl with red hair and bright eyes, a skirt turning to the sound of an ancient music yet young, bridge that draws her sons together through the ages, breath of a generous and hospitable people.
It´s the warmth of a friendship, born by chance, never forgotten.
Ireland never leaves you, she gets into your bones like a fever, in your blood, in your dreams, and she calls you, sweet and continuous like her waves, "e il naufragar m´è dolce in questo mare... (and it´s sweet being wrecked into this sea...)"