We’ll unfold our verses

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0FQ488BSM

We’ll unfold our verses

 

If everything’s been written

And everything been said

We won’t speak anymore

We won’t write anymore

 

But if we are new prophets

Sent to remind manhood

The world belongs to God

 

And if the world drowns off

In the mud of inky well

And scribes and Pharisees

Roar in the vanities

Then we’ll still howl our dreams

Writing down all our visions

And against their arsenals

We will unfold our verses.

                          In Cagliari September 2008

I remember

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0FQ488BSM

I remember when,

at the winter solstice,

 we danced under the stars

to propitiate the favor of the gods!

Then came a man,

the son of the Only true God!

I still look at the sky above me

when the stars come together in December!

 But now I know whom to pray

for the weaknesses of humanity,

and I know whom to thank

for the beauty of the world!

Best Regional Author for Sardinia Award 2026

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0FQ488BSM

The new day

(on death of my brother Mauritius)

 

Now the veils of Maya have fallen

And no longer covers your body

The armor of the Syrian Naaman;

I see on your face

Shining again the ancient light

Of our childhood games

When hopes

were all to come

And the misleading curtain

Which hardens the hearts

Had not yet come between us.

Run now

On your nimble legs

Wait for me in the sunny lands

Where the sun never sets down.

Now I know what is love

 

 

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07X1FSFJL

Now I know what is love

Not the sudden passion

that turns off soon

and then rises again

Not even your eyes

May be sincere

But not eternal

Not your vain, fallacious promises

But the Word that never betrays

It’s true love!

 

The revenge of Music

They say that all seas are connected to each other through oceans and straits, forming a single global marine system. And therefore, thanks to the Suez Canal, Sardinia and the Mediterranean are today artificially connected to the Red Sea and therefore to the Persian Gulf, on whose western coast, facing Persia, the star of Doha shines.

But if someone had attended the end-of-year concert, organized on 31 December 2025 by the Sardinia Opera of the Teatro Lirico of Cagliari, he would not have needed to make an effort to search for these geographical connections, which also exist, since the seas and oceans constitute, through the currents, a single hydrographic basin.

But in the civic theater of Cagliari, last night, when Sardinia met Qatar, there were other currents that could be felt in the room and which, in some magical moments, connected the two seas; the Sardinian Mediterranean one, and the Persian one from Doha.

These musical currents crossed the souls of the numerous spectators present, creating a musical atmosphere of brotherhood.

Thus it happened that the percussions of the Qatari Ensemble “Fijiri”, two Darbuka and a Davul, merged perfectly with the instruments of the opera orchestra, composed of winds, woodwinds, brass, piano and other percussions and even more so with the voices of the Choir.

Those who were present could feel strong sensations. It seemed that those sounds, as a whole, called humanity back to a universal spiritual fusion, which, although too often rejected by the narrow vision of politicians and the powerful men of the world, has nevertheless found its guiding spirit in music.

It is undeniable that even the sound stones, masterfully played by the daughter of its creator Pinuccio, and the pianist Andrea Granitzio, were able to intercept these musical currents, which, rising in the large theater space, put the spirit of those present in communication.

Personally I heard the rhythms that the musicians gave to the pearl divers of Qatar. And I perceived the same sounds that echo in our Mediterranean Sea from Morocco and from the other countries that overlook our sea and which constitute a unique cultural entity, from a musical point of view, such as to include all the countries of Arab tradition, even beyond the Arabian Peninsula. And Sardinia, which has dominated the Mediterranean for millennia, radiates its music and sounds all around, even through the sound stones of Pinuccio Sciola. A symphony of Mediterranean sounds that Fabrizio De André would certainly have liked, convinced as he was that the Mediterranean constituted a unique basin of culture and sounds.

The Gavino Murgia Quintet also participated in this universal symphony of sounds, in the song of the two seas, with their masterfully performed pieces, which in the musical form of jazz, recalled, at times, the best Frank Zappa, in his most daring experiments, but also other musicians, purer in their jazz background, such as Davis, Coltrane, and even more Metheny, Di Meola and Mc Laughlin.

The climax of the evening, in my opinion, occurred with the performance of some songs by Dana Al Fardan, taken from the album “Tempest”, masterfully arranged, in the orchestration by Joris Laenen and for the choral part by Giovanni Pasini, who conducted the orchestra, the choir and all the other musicians present with authority and precision.

Special praise also deserves the violinist Anna Tifu (who carries on the musical legacy of Enzo Bosso), the pianist Andrea Granitzio and Gavino Murgia, with his incomparable sax.

The final pearl, as also underlined by director Pasini, was the singing performance of Alice Marras who ventured into “Andimironnai”, a traditional Sardinian song, accompanied by Anna Tifu on violin, Gavino Murgia on solo sax, Daniele Russo on solo drums and again by the sound stones of Maria Sciola, who did not make us regret the trite and hackneyed finals of the most classic of the year-end concerts.

A successful experiment therefore, both on a cultural and more purely musical level. a hope for a future of peace and brotherhood, through music.

In this sense, applause goes to superintendent Andrea Cigni who had the courage to break with tradition without forgetting that good music must still be conveyed with the right professionalism.

Just a story of islands

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07JKFNCDG

Chapter 3

 

The entry was dark, but after closing the front door behind our shoulders, we noticed, on the left, an open door, which filtered a weak light. After we had gone through a poorly illuminated and narrow corridor, we turned into a staircase. There was not any sign of life all around. At length we found, still on the left, an open door and we leaned out to see.

" Come in, come in" said a voice from behind a disclosed glasses’ door.

And before we could do or say anything, a thin face appeared on the threshold and in a firmer and louder tone repeated:

"Come in, at last!".

He soon showed us two chairs in front of his desk and started watching us with questioning expression.
I also observed him with attention and curiosity.
He was the thinnest person I had ever seen in my life. You could rather say that he was made but skin and bones. He had prominent cheekbones and also the jaws, the temples and the front were very protruding.

If some incredibly brisk and extraordinarily green eyes had not filled his eyes sockets, I might have also believed that he could really be made of skull and crossbones.
But skulls and crossbones, usually, do not speak. Furthermore he wore some suits which let him to look like a normal man.

 "I am Mr Winningoes. What can I do for you?" –he said as soon as we had sat down.

 " We are looking for a job" - George immediately said after a brief pause.

" What kind of job are you looking for?"  said the man on his way. Despite of the appearances, his voice sounded like a perfect job’s agency employee.

 "Everything will be all right" I dared, in my difficult English, staring at George to ask confirmation of the agreement we had hastily reached, not to speak at all of Mr Joking.

" Ah!"  the man exclaimed "Let’s see, then."

With the thin finger he started pointing up the lines of some sheets leaned on a skin braid on his front. He mumbled, rather than leaked, without any sense and, from time to time, he fixed a careful look to one or the other of us and after, shaking his head, he started over reading.

He had finally arrived to the last sheet, and rather seemed that the finger already slipped from the sheet to the braid, and from this to the green glass that covered the plan of the desk, when the old man pronounced with vivacity: - “Here you are! Two intelligent young people, good health, bachelors and prepared to travel around, we are looking for easy and pleasant job. Good conditions. No references are required."

to be continued...

Just a story of islands

 

 

 

 https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07JKFNCDG

Chapter 2

 

That Friday, the 9th of November 1979, right the day we were going to meet that strange Mr Winningoes, as we had soon to discover, I followed him on the wide tree-lined roads. On the sidewalks, the leaves, fallen during the night, had formed a thick and soft carpet, on which George seemed to walk with special pleasure.

It was a colorless day, one of those typical London winter days where the diurnal light maintains the same slim intensity, from mornings to evenings, and the night comes up suddenly unexpected, when the pale and smothered reverberation of the sun, behind a thick blanket of clouds, has concluded its almost invisible cycle.

It blew a fresh and light breeze. But the wind, from time to time, became impetuous, and by means of violent gusts seemed to push us, like for joking or as if it wanted to encourage us to go straight ahead. And courage was exactly what we really needed, as our search of a job was becoming a serious and weary problem.

“I don't recognize the London's gone times anymore” George had told me, not later than the former evening, coming out from one of the many jobs agencies we had uselessly visited.

I followed him on his march, absorbed in the noise that our own footsteps produced on the leaves. The rhombus of an auto dissuaded suddenly my attention.

”Where are we going to?” I asked him.

” We will try to go this way along” he answered turning slightly back his head. “This way through we will rejoin the Maida Vale. There are plenty of job’s agencies up there.”

George knew a lot better than I that area, as he was living since a longtime. He had taken that one-room flat where we were living together, with a girl, now got back to Italy, like he fleetingly told me, not without a shade darkening sadly his eyes and I did not dare to ask him more of it. We walked silently. Sometimes we crossed some hasty passing or perceived, almost more than hear it, as a fleeting apparition, a car or a motorbike whose noise was spaced out slowly, as absorbed and diluted in the immensity of the surrounding silence.

We walked around and after an indefinite time, that desert of dry leaves seemed to stop against an iron handrail.

I brusquely handed at it, gasping and excited for the march and for a strange emotion that had suddenly pervaded me. From my point of observation, tall brushes of trees hid the horizon and I could only see, slightly swaying in the void, a green poster with the write “Winpey “in red- block dark characters.

I felt a pleasant excitement throughout my body. A feeling that immediately was of lightness. A desire to let my body flow in the air, toward that poster, flying the sky.

-” Let’s go down these steps”.

The George’s voice dissuaded me from my thoughts. As we went down the stairway, the view, under of us, revealed its real contours. That poster, that seemed like suspended in the air, was the summit of the tall pylon of a crane that laid in the center of an immense housing estate.

I watched again toward that write and noticed that it was hacked against a loaded leady sky with no change of tonality. A dark and heavy vault until my eyes could see.

”Are we in the morning or in the evening, George?” I did seriously.

”What difference does it make?!” he answered almost in a mocking way “However there seem that some people are working over there. Let’s go and see.” He added turning to a serious tone back.

We reached the site fence. Through the interspaced tables that bounded we saw numerous working machines: diggers, shovels, concrete mixers, kneaders, all laying like dead animals, in the most total silence.

"Are you sure there are some people working here? I can't see anybody."

George gave a look through the tables too, a little bending on them.

"They might be stopping for one of the so many "tea-times" English people like to do. Let’s look for the entrance and then we will see."

To find the access of the yard, that occupied a wide place in the center of a crossroad, we walked along his perimeter. The entrance was exactly on the opposite side. We entered.

Between working machines and shovels, heaps of sand and piles of sacks of cement, bricks, lumbers, irons and utensils, we noticed a small cottage of red plate, that was almost in the centre of the building yard. We were approaching there when a small door was opened out of the shed.

"Hello boys!" A gentleman said sorting out " Can I help you?"

His voice was cordial and happy. It seemed he was talking to well known persons.

" Is there any need of some workers?" - George did him without preambles and also laughing. We stopped a little closer and so I had the opportunity to better observe him: he looked quite a lot peaky, making a net contrast with the strong black of the hair. He dressed with elegance a brown suit on a white shirt with a red and black cravat.

" I would not mind at all " the man replied in the former jovial tone -" but our firm assumes only through the agency. Now I will give you the address so you can go and see there. There are good hopes. Follow me in to the office, please" he spurred us, seeing we were so undecided.