To my poor friend

 

I’m not able to work today. I always control my mail and your blog.
My soul is emplty, full of fog.
My eyes are wet.
My heart is somewhere, lost, painful.

I was so selfish and so cruel to you: I was your evil. I knew it.
I did it anyhow.
In my language, it’s a mortal sin.
I built your evil. I hurt you.
Let me dedicate to you this song by Vasco Rossi, sang by Fiorella Mannoia.

 

That’s my bad translation of the lyric.

Sally walks on the street even without
looking at the ground
Sally is a woman who no longer wants
to make war
Sally has suffered too much
Sally has already seen what
can collapse upon her
Sally was already punished
for each distraction and weakness
for each honest caress
given just to not feel bitterness

Feel that it’s raining outdoor
feel its so nice noise

Sally walks on the road and she’s firm
thinking about nothing
by now she looks at the people
with indifferent manner
those moments when a glance moved upsets
and when life was easier
and strawberries could also be eaten are far away
because life is a shiver that flies away
it’s all a balance around the madness
around the madness

Feel that it’s raining outdoor
feel its so nice noise

Yet, Sally, maybe is just this the sense, the sense
of your wandering
maybe really we must feel ourselves
a little bad at the end
maybe at the end of this sad story
someone will find his courage
to face the sense of guilt
and delete them off from this trip
to really live each instant
and every its upset
as it were the last one

Sally walks on the road with light steps
now it is evening
the streetlights lights up
all the people run to home in front of their televisions
and a seed comes into her mind
maybe her life was not completely lost
maybe something was saved
maybe really not everything was wrong
maybe it was right so
maybe, maybe yes
What do you want I tell you?

feel that so nice noise

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Estote fortes

 

Estote fortes in bello
et pugnate cum antiquo serpente
et accipietis regnum aeternum,
alleluia

Be valiant in war
and fight the ancient serpent
and you shall enter the everlasting kingdom,
alleluia.

Copts

 

The new

 

From the sixth hour until the ninth hour darkness came over all the land. About the ninth hour, Jesus cried out in a loud voice, “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?” which means, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken Me?”

(Matthew, 27: 45-46)

 


The word “Copt” is indirectly derived from the Greek Αἰγύπτιος Aigýptios meaning simply “Egyptian” (from Wikipedia).
How many times I go to the Sunday mess only because I always do so? Only because I must do so?
How many times the mess is boring to me?
The same mess, in the same day, for other Christians is an important and precise choice.
The same mess, in the same day, for other Christians can be pain and martyrdom.
And death.
As the first mess was.
As the mess of Christ himself was.
… and I go there without thinking.
Or, better: and I go there thinking to some most important matter!
…and I go there and the mess often annoys me.
Well.
I think that if I’ll go to the Hell, it will be so not for an excess of life, but for my omissions.
Not for my luxury, but for my accidie.
Yes: for my sloth.
Now I pray for all you, dear sisters and brothers.
Now I ask also to all you, sisters, brothers: “Forgive me, please!

The death of God and the beauty

 

Up: one of the music of yesterday ceremony, here by one of my favourite ensable…

 

Last night I went to a church where there was a Via Crucis sung by a chorus in which I have some friends.

It was beautiful and touching; each station of the Cross was marked by a chant a cappella: before and after only silence. I listened to several treasures of the millenary cristian tradition: from medieval songs to Allegri, Mozart, Rachmaninov, Bardos.

All that beauty surprised and moved me deeply, above all because it was all about pain and death and not only human pain and death: God died. How much beauty the man was able to build in the arts about such a tragedy!

So, I thought that it is not only the blue of the sky, the colours of the springs, the lips of my love or the joy for the life to show me God, but also the darkness, the pain. The death.

If the man, this very poor being, has the power to make beauty from the death… what’s the power of God?