The roe deer of Clos Beiran

Clos Beiran

Clos Beiran

A roe deer hurtles in front of me lightning. It is a messenger of the Mountain of Inverso , of Inverso Pinasca. She sent it to wake me from the dream. Because Clos Beiran appeared to me like a dream, in the snow, veiled away by fir branches.
Many tidy stones to make a village. Asleep in the white of a mild winter, on a day without sunshine of soft light, not to hurt the eyes, to lull dreams.
Even those who lived here dreamed, perfect straight walls, colorful, smell of grape must and hopes.
Roe deers did not need to wake him. It was a thought of the stones of steep and although safe, because native, paths.
But this is the thinking of those who in his time goes fast on the asphalt, no longer runs the stones of ancient mule tracks with the step of the sun.
Clos Beiran, colorful, of ancient colors ennobled by the time. Colors surprising sight and heart, after you’ve glimpsed through the little window of a cellar, the winepress, giant and imposing, king in that room, peering you, nosy and foreigner.
Where now there are brambles there were vineyards, and who colored the house, by artist’s roller and brush of azure and drank that wine, sour and yet unique and therefore sweet, like a dream.
As my dream.
The roe deer woke me up, otherwise I would have taken away other secrets from Clos Beiran, from him and from the Mountain. But she is jealous. She leaves you run just a bit over the time to watch, then she closes the door, with kindness, in the memories she will not let you go further . With the lightning stroke of a roe deer.

Clos Beiran

Clos Beiran

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