At the Festival della Fiaba in Modena, Italy, everything was alive.
That tree, which seems suspended in an ethereal flight, but firmly anchored to the earth, surrounded by an older complex, which has nourished it over time, the chirping of birds, the space inhabited by the three sfogline, their venerable age and fresh pasta, but also by many other young people, all gathered under the canopy of the holm oak, dotted with white paper lanterns – it was all alive.
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