Good day to you all.

I am Corillio, and this is Opera,
a wondrous city, rich in culture and diversity,
the mirror of a world that has turned its complexity into a gift.

Peoples of every kind,
with customs, colors, and flavors so different from one another,
have set their roots within these walls.
In the halls of these temples, disagreement became unity,
and from unity was born the law of the least,
a law that protects especially those who did not write it.

Above our heads, the sky is crossed by spirits, gods, and guardians,
beings worthy of our devotion, yet never demanding it.
And through the streets of its markets,
and the quarters of those who have made art their daily craft,
hospitality takes the traveler by the hand,
guiding them through unexpected flavors,
among objects and traditions that seem to defy time itself.

Opera was all this,
and in the hearts of the few who still remember, it remains so.

Today, however, the streets of Opera are silent.
Its song was stilled in a single night.
It was the people who made her great,
their hopes and will gave life to this dream.
But in one night, arrogance took the place of hope,
and their will faltered.

The descendants of those who once lived this dream
now walk distant lands,
most unaware of what once was,
accompanied only by a few scattered notes,
and a handful of verses born from that ancient resolve.

Yet the stories of that lost harmony still linger here,
within these walls,
painted in the frescoes,
hidden within the carvings of timeless artifacts.

So come, sit by the fire,
taste my food,
and listen to my stories, our stories.

And if you, too, love to dream,
then take them as your own,
and dream them again, whenever you wish.