The lilt of dawn streaming through a gentle copse, all sylvan and splendor as twilight finds its restful place. He is the peeper of spring, the aromatic mist of minestrone and the pine needles of the woodland path. His lyrical tenor is of the elusive wood thrush dwelling deep in the forest, the last wandering bird to arrive and herald the rise of la primavera.
Ignazio, a cheery brown eyed faun: folletto dei boschi. How nimble you are of word with such a funny bone that shows us how to forget our cares if only for a while. You are a river otter, clever and sleek, playfully tickling giggles from Piero. Gianluca says with a smile you are plum crazy.
How you made me to feel so welcome with your gentle smile. How much there is to admire. The brother who tempers the trio. Il padrino! All our respect. Yet when you sing bittersweet tales of the almost vanished memory of happiness and cry the mighty Caruso’s lament how can I not find tears in my eyes. Where does it come from? You are all delight my woodland sprite. Il mio biscottino born in the moon of gathering grapes.
Ignazio Boschetto’s whose name translates to fiery woodland. Chi è Ignazio? Folletto dei boschi, a magical elf.