The road continues to wind in front of me, Caltanisetta, San Cataldo, Serradifalco and, finally, the road sign indicates that the destination of my journey is now near. Multicoloured sceneries appear at each curve, now Bacco with its bunches of delicious grapes, then rocky peaks and barren fields as well as brown and fertile fields which change colour in a strange play of shadows. Another sign and Milena is still nearer. While waiting impatiently to see it appear on a mountain peak, or almost falling asleep on a slope which gently descends into a river bed, almost unexpectedly I begin to notice the first half hidden houses and suddenly I am in the centre. The town streets are quiet and inviting, not at all affected by the uninterrupted and long flow of cars; a single turn is enough for one to see that the whole town is there, yet a glance is enough for one to notice that there is another Milena to discover, and then still another and yet another. It is Milocca with its Robbe, it is the ancient town made up of so many agglomerates of houses which form small villages, the Robbe, separated from one another by some hundreds of metres. Milena and the Robbe, I like to think of them as the present and the past, always alive, always vigilant so that history may continue to be a teacher of life. The soul of Milena is there, in the Robbe, in the small streets and destroyed houses, in that smell of hay and cattlesheds and stables, of old abandoned houses. It is that soul which attracts and almost calls me. I decide to enter, to visit them all, to walk through those streets; which now are called streets though till yesterday were but spaces between one house and another, like limbs of the same body. The sun already high in the sky shines on every corner, it is reflected on the white plaster walls and on the old glass windows which from the outside allow you to see the sky. Every house reflects its shadow on the wall of the other, as if to underline the family link with the one who built those houses and lived in them. I walk along one street of a Robba almost totally uninhabited, there is nobody returning from the fields, not a single hen around. The silence which is almost complete is only now and then broken by a creaking sound or by a breath of wind. The sunlight brings into focus the cracks in the walls and the tufts of grass which appear from them and peep onto the world. I look into those cracks, in their essence. Despite the dramatic aspect of their neglect they give the impression of being transformed into gurgling veins of blood and life. And so, crack after crack, appears from them the sweat of the hands which had in the past so wisely managed to conceal them. Little by little, that silent and mysterious environment becomes alive: it is dawn, the shy glare of a candle enlightens a half-closed window and downstairs through a door a peasant comes out with his mule, both of them ready to tackle a hard day in the fields. Then another one and yet another. Finally the housewives fill the streets, the children with their candles in front of the nose are chasing the dogs from one corner of the Robba to the other. The women are beating the clothes in the wash house while they tell ancient legends and ordinary fantasies. And I am there, among them, in the Robbe of Milocca, the past and the future already present in the streets of Milena.