PART
E ' early afternoon just stopped raining, I feel the smell of wet grass that spreads in the air, a trickle breaks the silence of this late summer, pure drops fall from roof blackened by time.
On a damp and peeling walls covered with lichens and borage I see two, three snails slowly approaching a clump of grass, but halfway cowed by a ray of sunshine are confused by the arrival of the warm light, antennas straight up to that point and defiant of a sudden you portray, wiggle, I am making them go away shadow for a moment, a few meters and noted with surprise that the wall crumbling shell of Parmelia has become a tangle of silver embroidery, are filaments of slime left by the time those harmless mollusks.
no longer born around the corn to my country, there is no one in the river, not blanket hung out to dry on that railway bridge, the singing of the silent women returning from the fields, I do not feel the smell of homemade bread, the smell of hay for the narrow streets, the sound of flying hooves of donkeys on the steps cobbled made plain by floods during storms. I can not feel the bitter smell of soaked alleys grumatura from the barrels, there are no longer smoky cellars where the screams and curses of morra players mingled with his fists on the table and gestures of those who played fast tressette! I remember women slim but strong belle nelle loro lunghe vesti ora bianche e colorate, ora nere a lutto, femmine coraggiose, abili nel portare in equilibrio sulla testa le loro gerle, rendendosi libere le mani in modo da poter affrontare gli erti sentieri ed i vicoli del paese. Fra la testa e l’oggetto che trasportavano interponevano “a curuna” una stoffa che intrecciavano per non sciogliersi e che serviva per alleviare la pressione del peso.
Ricordo la messa celebrata nella chiesetta i “Sandu Linardu”, le donne del vicinato accorrevano a seguire la “funzione”, altre scendevano “ra Siddreru” e “Sandu Nicola”, i capelli sistemati “ca scettula” the characteristic bands of silk braid-shaped head, others wore handkerchiefs hiding sometimes grotesque faces I make us tremble. Older women clutching a rosary in his hand, the grains were obtained from the pits of the olives. Today, small churches of the past have all closed, some ruined, other sides have given way to major churches, those "signed", where the ladies adorned with trinkets and jewelry to show off the latest hair fashion. When I pass to the churches of the unfortunate "I still have the habit of marking the chest, I wish you would reopen it to continue to instill in my heart for the simple and firm faith that accompanied the ancient people, those who could neither read nor write but who have inherited this wonderful country that we today, and educated generations of graduates, we're doing to die for lack of affection.
forward "vicinanzi" abandoned, lost in the embrace now perennial "ra mindose. Cracks in the walls, split and crumbled by the deadly blows of time, wild fig trees and shrubs make room. The houses hug each other, as for support, but some do not make it crumble under the weight of loneliness and oblivion.
Salgo snaking along streams of rock, the sky disappears hidden behind a door of the walls, I find myself in a neglected garden at dusk, the trees are bare, a chill wind slips into a window without glass. A door is open, go into what once must have been a barn, there's some moldy hay in the manger seem to hair graying of time. Crusts of manure secco ricordano un mondo perduto che non tornerà mai più. Grosse ragnatele tappezzano muri neri come la pece, il soffitto fatto con travi ed assi di legno ha ceduto, sembra una grossa cassa toracica spolpata dal tempo.
Quando esco dalla stalla una scarica di pioggia mista al vento freddo mi piomba addosso, vengo punto come da api impazzite. Dura poco, mi rimetto in cammino tra i vicoli, salgo scalini che sembrano ricavati nel cuore di questa collina. Nella penombra della sera i muri bagnati dall’acqua appena caduta sembrano allungarsi come lingue lucenti nei chiarori obliqui dei primi lampioni that light.
I pass the house of his grandfather, a lump rises in my throat, I keep inside the regret was not to be his neighbor when he left, I preferred the chase days of life, I had to stop, feel the breath of these stones today. When you're young you feel strong, you have the presumption to be able to dominate and subdue the time. Life in our hands is nothing more than a scythe, and when you are young and beginners is easy to cut close to the ground and contaminate the blade with the ground, beat against the rocks and blunt. The weather makes us less stubborn, errors need to become more adept at keeping the blade close to the earth and even to cuts, the experience makes the effort less burdensome, but the shots went bad over time, they use the sickle and cut flowers can no longer hang . Dear grandfather, I hope you will forgive me, I had to sit a bit 'more with you. In your memory and your example every day I try the path.
I walk these steps in the silence of the night, streams of tears dripping down my face. Light beams out from the inside of some houses, there are people who still resist, this is perhaps not the country is allowed to die at all, still feels a warmth that gives courage and hope.
I am leaving behind the acrid smell of chimneys, the smoke is dispersed into narrow alleys that penetrate deep into a dark, I find myself in an open space without life, a gust eddies of wind lifts the leaves, there is none, hence the country is dead, there is a gloomy silence. I walk quietly to avoid disturbing the sleep of these tombs. Yet once this place was full of life! I listen to hear the sounds of the past, the ticking of chisels, hammers the beat, the rhythm of agile and industrious hands, pat the presses, the slight creak of the mill grind, I see the breath come out of the donkey stables I hear the faint wail of a few chickens, a stone staircase from the wind rolled a barrel of milk, then all of a sudden from a dilapidated basement, I saw a faint light that was not there before, it is not a modern light seems to be flickering of a candle.
Frightened climb a steep ladder and peek inside a large window barred with iron rods and un graticcio annerito, appeso ad una grossa trave di legno scorgo un maiale e sotto la gola osservo un secchio di latta che raccoglie il sangue bollente dell’animale ucciso. Un uomo anziano lo rimesta con una canna per evitare che coaguli, il pavimento è cosparso di peli, su un piccolo tavolo di legno una serie di coltelli affilatissimi e sottili aspettano di essere adoperati. Un uomo di spalle senza voltarsi ne afferra uno con presa sicura, vedo la lama scintillare alla luce fioca di una grossa candela. Sul grugno dell’animale il sangue ha creato un rivolo grumoso e nero dalla quale esce ancora qualche goccia. L’anziano toglie il secchio con il sangue raccolto mentre una donna vi poggia una tinozza di plastica. L’uomo di spalle dirige la lama verso the lower part of the animal, cut marks on his neck with a knife then sinks effortlessly slicing his carotid artery, on the arms of the man spitting pieces of clotted blood black, with a movement decided by a last shot, his head hanging for a while 'then drops it into the tub. On the top affects the skin carefully whitish, cleverly designed with short and conservative cuts in a row with very thin line that splits into two parts the pink nipples of the pig, from tear out intense fumes, the steaming entrails are placed in an old tin pot battered and blackened by smoke, pungent smells of piss and shit, plumes of steam rising into the air more and more subtle and eventually disappear.
Intent to spy, he suddenly felt a weight on his shoulders a cold shock to me along the back, the air is still there is an eerie silence.
(CONTINUED)
