At sunrise
the girls
singing go
through the rows
full of grapes
and sourish scent,
which imbues the nostrils.
Up and down
along the long paths,
between a chat
and a mockery,
between a story
and a laughter,
between a little weep
and a joke,
the ticking of the scissors
by way of an orchestra
resounds.
Only at twilight,
with the agile hands tired,
with the neat clothes *****,
they get ready
to rest,
the clamour
dies away,
the night
falls,
the countryside
sleeps.

22.12.'09