Selva Lugana

𓆰  Swans and spilled wine ④

What wind blows in our direction?

The Vinèssa is furious today.

The fog dissipates leaving only a humid memory on Pandolfo's skin; the reeds are all bowing to the angry Vinèssa, the wind that brings the screams of war.

My legs are tired, my spirit is tired, I cannot proceed farther for now. I decide to rest, even if just for a while. I still feel the sensation of having killed a man grappling my throat.

And so, Pandolfo rests in the reed bed, on a stone that looks like a throne, challenged by the wind who gives him no peace.

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