Lost on the side of a mountain that still guards with obstinate greed the forgotten echo of the old gods, the village seems anchored in a time, which, as Borges affirmed about the rain, always belongs to the undaunted minutes of the past.

Afflicted, their old houses, once proud estates of manor and farm, are hardly supported on pillars mined by time, but nevertheless, hiding secrets that no one seems to care about anymore.

The god of progress passed by and without even deigning to look at her, he miserably removed her from the sphere of influence of the paths of the future, leaving her, as always, at the mercy of the untimely crowing of the rooster, owner and lord of the cobwebs that crowd over the winery.

Beside him, the old wheels of the Celtic chariot silently wait to be anointed to the frame of the chariot and to be pushed again by the slow walk of the pair of oxen lying indolent in the depths of the stable.

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