I have always loved Fallo and its people, or better said, my people. The vital forces that have energized my life came from this small town on the Apennines Hills. It was there that I first saw the colorful fields of red poppies, of yellow ginestre, of undulating silver green wheat. It was there that I first smelled wet leaves, burned hay, fruit, cut grass, harvests, snow, burning wood in the fireplace. It was there that I first heard the sounds of singing birds, of bubbling brooks, of wind, of rustling leaves, of thunder, of rain. It was there that I first felt so many feelings of friendship, of liking and disliking, of compassion, of latent passions, of love often untold, of pain never shared.

All these things have their roots in Fallo, even if now some of these roots are peacefully buried in the cemetery, or under the ruins of houses that no longer exist, or cling to homes no longer familiar because of their new looks, or they are buried in happy fields which nature has lovingly reclaimed.