In Basilicata beauty is safe, you can touch it with your hand without being afraid. The green of its mountains is luxuriant and bright. The yellow of its fields is resistant and bright. The blue of its clean and mirrored sea. The silence of its streets is an invitation to remember. The distance between its villages is only physical and never disinterest.

Bread and wine have a genuine taste, just as it should be. Olives and oranges, strawberries and hazelnuts are kind fruits of a generous land. Here women and men of art met beauty and fed on it to bring into the world masterpieces of light and words. Basilicata has the genius and strength of its women, the lightness of its children, the patience of its men.

Seen from above, it has very high mountains and small villages surrounded by greenery and water, in the solitude of a summer day. It is a beauty of water and peaks, of ancient trees and stones like statues. Here the myth meets the dream. The earth is water. Light is for water. Life is in the water. Here the roots are those of everyone and the urgencies are like those of many. But the sun and the wind that arrive here make this place an eternal, poetic and beautiful corner, like the gaze of its women. A ball of streets. A plot of alleys. An open hand with very long fingers. To get there, go through wheat fields, ancient vineyards and pomegranate trees. Hidden in the oldest part of history, it was the mother and homeland of glorious children and abandonments. In such a place, silence is a duty.

In the land of badlands and olive trees, the beautiful sun and the sea a little further on, the air you breathe deeply is good and good for your hearts. It regenerates them, fortifies them, makes them alive and hungry. Here new questions are added and the answers seem simpler. In its vertical gardens of white houses and stories, stories add up and defend themselves. As the most important treasure you have. Like a dream of poetry and freedom.

Basilicata is the lapping of the waves, the engine of the boats, the calm of certain shores in summer, the sound of the sea in winter, the silence of the beaches in winter. It is the changing color of the sea, the infinite catalog of its beauties. But above all it is the need to get it back when it is missing, the demanding dream of returning. The mountain paths are the places of the journey, the pasta is homemade, the wine is red and is good, the smell of freshly baked bread is better than that of the houses of the old. There is no better place than this, where to draw and manufacture desires, where time can become future, where it is possible to look up without fear, to have higher ambitions than the trees and mountains that surround it, which seem to protect us but instead they confine us, in a small ancient world, which is now only a memory. Which is no longer for this world. Wonder is in homes, beauty is in the people who live there.
In its twisted streets you can search for the origin, find the afflatus, hear the heartbeat, be fearlessly embraced by unknown streets to discover the morning dew, the voice of the peasant. Here you can walk with your eyes closed, to understand if there is a connection, the contact of the soul with nature and to protect yourself from the storm of questions, from the rain of pains, from the sharp flashes, from the sound of thunder.

This land does not challenge but accompanies. Basilicata knows how to be mother and sister, strict and welcoming, companion and teacher. We carry this earth inside because it is the place of the soul. The perfect, ideal, safe place. Here absences are remedied and the light is that of its sun. To this land we have tied our seed and what will be the harvest. It speaks to you if you listen to it. He does not scream, but whispers. It does not indicate but suggests. Illuminate the gaze and the soul. Set your heart and eyes on fire. Of days, with the sun, it is a triumph of reflected light and shocking beauty. Everybody knows. Everyone wants to know. Women and men passing by who come here to be amazed, to be enchanted, to be inspired. Everyone wants to remember, photograph, preserve, defend it. If it didn't exist you wouldn't be able to imagine it, you couldn't invent it. Its truth is in the ancient heart. Deep and human, it seems infinite.