When Max saw that was different, had just 8 years. He knew that the closure was not the best way to avoid being subjugated by those who had been his friends, when started, just, puberty. Heir to the best wine grown in southern Tuscany, ran the year of 1664 when, as a descendant of the manor house Scaligeri produced the Chianti great to know that so far earned the position of best wine of the region. Those funds valleys lined with exquisite vine, had ordered his jailer, seeking to free it from the mundane curiosity. The man is as good as measured - sometimes lied to his mother - and only those with your height, reach the top or the stars.
The father learned to cope with their condition with a humor that was not accessible to pity, and when a civic or social event was scheduled to appear before a crowd, and asked permission to kneel and to rise developments. At times like this, most still do not understand if you laugh mocked them or himself. His father knew what he was doing when he was young, every night, he recounted the unusual and entertaining exploits of his son Gargantua and Pantagruel. Max then laughed, amused by the sight of those giant kind. The struggle for transcendence, like them, beyond his great humanity, led to the conviction that there is no obstacle which can not be reached to balance gain any limitations. With such certainty managed to become the largest host of Tuscany, arriving to develop an enormous capacity to delight all who wish to drink the fruits of their vineyards.
had grown up loving art, stories and flavors. He had lived without caring if your hair is tangled between the treetops, or attend school from the outside through a window, minimizing the force of his steps, his voice, his thoughts, and thus never denied of their condition until the day he met her and she became his soul, reason and feeling.
Do not sensed, did not see coming. Their presence had come as assault with a thief who climbs in the dark of night, on and defeated by life. What storm had thrown up his chest, cruel wretch who had shown him the way to his veins, making Evergreen host your senses, insatiable gourmet pending the sweetness of the harvest. Who was it that was not intimidated with more hands than hands like two bowls of endless depth, nor was shaking by the percussive sound of his voice.
Reconciling the agitation of his chest with a timeless feel that although it was unknown to him, if you still having it at his mercy he hardly dared to suspect the smoothness of her lips, to watch while he slept with his chest heaving and racking for some bad memories fading with sunlight. A haunt breathing and oxygen envy that had all in each inhalation. Nothing mattered
if he had thrown the north wind or always lived each cluster of grapes. Better than your sanity would break if it was forced to remember and when leaning over his face was a captive of the inexhaustible reservoir of seduction was her stare, at some point unrecognizable to any mortal, then thanked providence that she did not exist in light that would not look as it was and be satisfied with the ride feel of the vineyard site violet like a stormy sea, with her arms, taking it in the air at sunset dusk, waiting for the full consecration vintage. I was sure that in those endless walks, the scent of your skin, female fervor and the purple background of the vine, there was only a kind of symbiosis, of otherness and a miracle unique poetic not ever be exhausted.
One day she disappeared, without leaving a trace, a mark awarded by the hope of finding it. It was the same day they carried out the harvest. The day when the wailing of one giant heart, the valleys watered with a fine drizzle and resigned. Also the day that began the arduous task of touching the grapes to shed blood with agility proud, wanting to escape, to secede by itself, or on clusters that began to bubble, suffocated by the weight.
No sad, "whispered a voice that seemed to come from every sacred fruit - Do not you feel my perfume link to your waist and firm up your trunk? ... Now you own me, drink me, bathe in me. Go with my cadence and recognize my scent - he said - Cultivate my bouquet, my tannins and outlines frótame ferment until I feel shaken by your touch, because I never went and I have always been part of the vineyard of your valleys, I am surrendered to your feet, I am death and resurrection. Elena López Meneses
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