My town, my town, I never turned back to glance back at you. I remember you on a top of the hill, and then appeared a mountain carved by treacherous trails and rugged paths flanked by pricking thorn bushes.
I sing to you from inside my body, you bore me without harmony, raw material for the shaping. The sculptor's hand formed your shape, bitter curves, winding back streets, the mind like a stream, down to the valley and the ruins among rocks and trunks dragged along by the current. The little girl weaves through ancient houses, crumbling walls, she runs breathless, unable to comprehend, smiles yet weeps, skipping through tufts of grass, searches for the swallow's happy song, she reaches out her hand to caress the uncertain springtime air
Now that memory renews that painting made by time and which corrodes its precious canvas, now that nothing is able to be transformed, I laugh and weep hidden among the veils weaved by spiders, king of truths concealed by magic powder, dried flowers and strewn bottles.
The ding dong of the festive bell, the long line of people in black who accompany death, the festiveness of the town square adorned with ephemeral street lights of brightness and shadow, the carnival with its masks of delight and melancholy, the snow upon the green locks of a glimmering tree full of false joy, the old church welcoming the fervid tears of the repentant sinner, the olive branch, offered as a sign of peace: I am all this, my town. I pursue my genesis and as an unbridled foot soldier I ride the old worn steed that follows the track, finally, exhausted he attempts to rest his weary limbs in the refuge of an old cottage which has survived all the battles.