Some kind of Italy: Mario, Jacopo and the cherry tree.


fratyricon

Inclined as I am to a chronic indolence, I should enjoy those Italian moments, by my own, by my parents-in-law, by the shadowy side of the green, while I am eating cherries.
And I do enjoy them (moments ans cherries), with a sort of intimate delay (should I say I did?), writing down disorderly sketches of my Italian journey.

A different inclination, more courageous, endured the cherry tree since 1994, when a tremendous lightning – out of a memorable storm – hit its log.

Grandpa Mario planted the cherry tree when Cristiana, first of his six grandchildren, was born. Mario, ninety years old, gently and slowly is now heading to his tree, to me and Jacopo, his great-grandchild.

Walked by his daughter, with the aid of a cane, a bit stooped and with humid blue eyes, Mario is looking at Jacopo, somehow lost in his thoughts… thoughts, we can only guess.

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Kein Betreff. Zgia


white on paper scribbling a few lines that do not show white on paper scribbling a few lines that do not show a blind finger tip might be able to follow the incision of mind into the flat surface of lukewarm snow drink up the words swallow the wicked ways of sense and serendipidy let’s clink our fore heads and kiss that bit of air left between our cups of lips when i look back onto the path i’ve beaten until i coughed up these words i can see a white line as thin as air as random as smoke a tight tether around my neck can feel the pull in my heart but yet written in my own hand white and cloudy on the blue valley of horizon that shingle of day time and again and again and a a blind finger tip might be able to follow the incision of mind into the flat surface of lukewarm snow drink up the words swallow the wicked ways of sense and serendipidy let’s clink our fore heads and kiss that bit of air left between our cups of lips when i look back onto the path i’ve beaten until i coughed up these words i can see a white line as thin as air as random as smoke a tight tether around my neck can feel the pull in my heart but yet written in my own hand white on paper scribbling a few lines that do not show a blind finger tip might be able to follow the incision of mind into the flat surface of lukewarm snow drink up the words swallow the wicked ways of sense and serendipidy let’s clink our fore heads and kiss that bit of air left between our cups of lips when i look back onto the path i’ve beaten until i coughed up these words i can see a white line as thin as air as random as smoke a tight tether around my neck can feel the pull in my heart but yet written in my own hand white and cloudy on the blue valley of horizon that shingle of day time and again and again and white and cloudy on the blue valley of horizon that shingle of day time and again and again and a