The darkness in the soul

A semi-deserted city, unusual for a Saturday afternoon. It seems like the middle of the night, yet it is only Saturday afternoon, in the historic center of a surreal Parma. A grandiose monument, raised to the memory of an equally grandiose fellow citizen, relegated to a secluded corner of the city. The few souls that appear on the horizon seem like furtive ghosts that cautiously escape the eyes of the curious. The few souls that populate this surreal space belong neither to the history nor to the culture of the place, strangers, out of place, just as this historical period is out of place, as this time is alien to the meaning of life.

A poetry against greenpass by Giancarlo Guerreri:

Rubber walls against which they bounce,

wounds, my emotions.

Fatal paper prisons, devoid of soul,

that take the breath away from the desire for life,

to the life of the mind that rebels,

shouting the pain of forgotten freedom.

You are nothing but unfortunate hypocrites,

children of that nothingness that you represent;

dull puppets, moved by calloused hands,

who tear you apart with a mocking smile.

From nothing nothing will be born,

from your state arrogance

only the dark sewage will be born,

that will invade your veins of clay.

From nothing nothing will be born.

Not even fear will arise

that you would like to give us until your death.

From nothing nothing will be born.