That it is less bright than autumn and its magnificent chromaticism does not necessarily mean that winter lacks sensitivity and is at odds with poetics.

Since it is a season that invites meditation, winter also causes the metaphorical onslaught of the demon Meridian, the demon of melancholic catatonia, to produce a certain state of dreamy loneliness in the mind.

This becomes even more evident, even if possible, in the full nude that the landscapes suffer, affected by the lack of visitors, so lavish during other seasons and above all, by the vision, which can sometimes induce spasms of terrifying impression, of trees whose branches sway to the beat of the wind, without that familiar sound of bells that once interpreted their lost leaves.

A vision, however, apocalyptic, which, however, also invites contemplation and thinking about the cycles of life, which, even subject to the iron laws of matter, show us a cold but hopeful reality: that it is not even believed nor is it destroyed, it is only transformed.

NOTICE: Both the text and the photographs that accompany it are my exclusive intellectual property and therefore are subject to my Copyright.