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To Salvatore Quasimodo

I am sitting here, in the small tarmac curve in our countryside place.
We used to race on it with the “motòr” (In Emilia – land of many Ferrari – the “motòr” is the motorcycle, the car and the tractor, as long as there is passion), me and my son, when we used to do sports together. It’s nice to work on something, with a son… and later on these will be the fondest memories. Now I am here, sitting in the shadow, in the summer breeze, finally distant from annoying noises and poorly exchanged words.

My thirty-six year old boy has recently moved to America, married. Hooray for him, hooray for them!
We see each other, many times a year, yes, but the Ocean is in between.
Here the workshop and the things have their eyes closed, like sleepy, lazy dogs. They look at me and ask “you’re alone?”

And it’s immediately evening… my dear Salvatore.
“Often”, you told my mother, “he who writes as a child won’t write anything else later in life”. And you wished me a happy poetic future.

But tell me, Maestro, or leave me a note, did I make it? At least a little bit?