To my mother, "l'Aneta de i Pieri"
and to my Chiampo's valley
For many people, the impetuous winds of the storm they are forced to face to keep on living often parch the memory of the most remote times and, especially, dry up the clear waters which rose in their luminous childhood, gone forever.
Within, we remain with the black and barren rock from which they issued but will never return. There are few for whom, unexpectedly, the beloved voice of an extremely dear person again surges from the arcane unknown of space and time, from the abyss of a deep and silent sleep, to whisper:
«Go on, Antonio, tell what you remember from when you were a fine boy with eyes like the sky, full of happiness and fantasy. Tell and write the way I taught you. You can do it, and you'll succeed».
A sudden unstoppable anxiety tightens the throat, the maddened heart leaps: the reawakening is arduous, like drowning, and comes from the borders of life, a vortex of inexpressible emotions.
I was shaken to my depths and I have never been the same since that tumultuous reawakening in the middle of the night of July 7, 1997 but became a new being with a heart brimming with the delight of a rediscovered childhood.
I have lived as a stray, without wife or children, destined to disappear into nothingness, leaving nothing.
But now, illuminated by the warm sun of an admonitory dream and upheld by the dearly beloved voice of my mother, elevated above the abyss of space and time, with love and knowledge which are outside time, I will do what you affectionately suggested to me!...
A writer's dream|
Sta sera ve conto
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