Today I passed a hundred mountains; snow covered or with groves of olives and oranges. Some were rock and erosion, some wild, others bearing ancient hill towns or cut through by the tunnels of the autostrade.
Each has a history, a geography, a name. But names evaporate like the dews of summer. Even geology need only wait for time to erase it. Once seabed, then the battleground of bronze and elephants – the world blinks and Appenines are become sand.
All mountains know their name in truth is earth.