This is my path; this is my way home; it leads to my little paradise, to my source, to my hobo’s castle... Here, my every day’s springs suddenly reawaken, all my hidden hopes immediately revive, and my life becomes finally true...
This path could tell so many stories, could echo so many laughings, and could also pour such a lot of unforgettable tears... Here, even the stones have a crying soul. They have the memories of those proud and brave men who have sculpted the whole mountains with their own hands, who have irrigated this hard and barren earth with their own sweat and tears, and who have sung with their pain screams the most beautiful songs Mother Nature had ever heard... They have extracted millions of stones from the ground during years and years, just with a pickaxe, just for being able to cultivate some vegetables or some vine, just for staying alive and free. Everyday, when I see these stones walls, I’m always thinking about these gentlemen: I’ll always be very grateful to them; they have built my ramparts against the bad winds, the last bastion of my own liberties, where the virgin moon and the dying sun can reflect, when the daylight just hesitates for a short while, their most wonderful and ambiguous silver-gold dreams and then naturally enlighten my way home ...