Free download. Book file PDF easily for everyone and every device. You can download and read online Il figlio del venditore di sogni (Italian Edition) file PDF Book only if you are registered here. And also you can download or read online all Book PDF file that related with Il figlio del venditore di sogni (Italian Edition) book. Happy reading Il figlio del venditore di sogni (Italian Edition) Bookeveryone. Download file Free Book PDF Il figlio del venditore di sogni (Italian Edition) at Complete PDF Library. This Book have some digital formats such us :paperbook, ebook, kindle, epub, fb2 and another formats. Here is The CompletePDF Book Library. It's free to register here to get Book file PDF Il figlio del venditore di sogni (Italian Edition) Pocket Guide.

While the compilation LP's have always been very popular in Italy since the early sixties, the rock and progressive scene of the 70's didn't produce many interesting titles, especially for what unreleased material is concerned. Below there is a small number of various artists' LP's and CD's with where available recording details and track listings. Also interesting because it includes some British artists that had a successful career in Italy, Mal from the Primitives , Camel , The Senate.

Released as soundtrack of the eponymous film, the album is worth mentioning because it includes some good tracks, only available on singles, by The Trip that are the main characters in the film and New Trolls , along with some mainstream pop. All studio recordings, many of these were released on singles. A promo-only single RCA PM with similar cover was also released, containing short excerpts of the album tracks. The CD was released in a limited numbered issue and is now difficult to find.

The two tracks by The Trip were also included in their first LP. Usually considered one of the most important festivals of the time, the 1st "Festival d'Avanguardia e Nuove Tendenze", held in Viareggio in June was used by Ariston as a title for this LP aimed at promoting some of the label's progressive artists. In fact the LP offers a very limited picture of the festival, only including three groups. Particularly interesting are the tracks by I Top 4 , a group that had only released three commercial singles in on Victory label; the three tracks included here could have been the start of a new career, but the band disappeared from the musical scenes.

All studio recordings, the Nuova Idea track was also released on their first album In the beginning , while Immagine by I Top 4 was also on a Victory single. A very rare compilation dedicated by Fonit to Radio Montecarlo, a very important source of good music for Italian fans. This popular radio station organised a rock contest for unknown artists in and some of the bands that took part in it were featured in this compilation, most of them with otherwise unreleased tracks. Conceived as a budget price sampler of the newly born Bla Bla label, the Tarzan compilation has gradually become one of the rarest and most expensive items on that collectible label.

Whether the compilation is worth the high price demanded is up to you, the CD reissue is much cheaper. A new CD reissue on BTF, with gatefold mini-LP cover and 6 bonus tracks, has been released in to replace the old Artis re-edition, which was now impossible to find. Prehistoric sound by Osage Tribe was also from a single, while their remaining two tracks, Hajenhanhowa and Crazy horse were excerpts from album tracks the latter originally called Soffici bianchi veli.

Not too rare to find and including tracks already on the LP's, this album is interesting because it has a newspaper cover in the same style as Jethro Tull's Thick as a brick. All the tracks come from the albums released by the above artists on RCA in A mid-price double album with gatefold cover, this included all live recordings all in mono and not great sound quality taken from a series of concerts held at Rome's Trianon in to promote young artists. There's very little rock or prog in this compilation, but some interesting jazz-rock tracks by the likes of Perigeo and Toni Esposito and a good appearance by Stradaperta both on their own and as backing musicians for a young Antonello Venditti.

Taken from the 6th edition of the "Festa del proletariato giovanile" organized in Milan, at Parco Lambro in June by the Re Nudo magazine, the album is a faithful document of what open-air festival were about in mid 70's, with strong political contents going over the music. The result is very fragmented and can be boring at times for the rock fans. Organised to raise funds to help Area 's singer Demetrio Stratos in his expensive treatments against his illness, the concert became a tribute to the singer after his sudden death.

Held in Milan, at Arena Civica on 14th June , it was attended by around 60, people. Many of the artists were last minute additions to the concert set, and the overall feeling coming from both the double LP and the TV broadcast released at the time is of an improvised happening.

Once again, as in the Parco Lambro LP, the musical contents seem to play a minor part, in this case against the sadness that emerges from many artists' exhibitions. A rare and little-known label sampler especially made by L'Orchestra for radio stations to promote some of the Italian artists signed to the label, along with the international group Art Bears. All the tracks come from LP's except Uccellin del bosco by Picchio Dal Pozzo , only issued on a rare flexi-disc included with the early copies of their second LP Abbiamo tutti i suoi problemi.

A rare to find beautiful CD compilation that was included with one of the first pressings of Paolo Barotto's book Il ritorno del pop italiano , and sadly never reissued. An out of print sampler from Mellow, mixing old and new Italian prog artists, this includes, among the others, the rare Dietro Noi Deserto Antonius Rex single tracks.

All this constantly under the command of a gentle and self-ironic gaze that looks at the world with a biting and sorrowful pietas. Born in Bosnia in , with a degree in English and German from the University of Belgrade, he studied history of theater in Berlin and now lives and works in Venice. She lived in Mogadishu from to , when she was forced to flee with the outbreak of civil war. Poesia della migrazione in italiano On the Boundaries of Verse. In she published the novel Madre piccola Little mother, Milan, Frassinelli Almost all of us were Italian- Somalian students and used mainly Italian to communicate, although we all spoke Somalian to various degrees.

The context was rather limited and the spoken language lexically poor, often rich with neologisms and constructions reminiscent of the other language. I really loved to read, I devoured all the books written in Italian that I was able to find in the poorly stocked libraries. I experienced a sensation of estrangement toward the world around the school, which continued when I met Somalian friends and relatives to whose group I tried my best to belong. I listened to stories and song in the desperate attempt to become familiar with them.

It seemed that no place was really mine. Writing and using Italian in the way in which I had interiorized it, in the attempt to reconcile a language I had only read with the sounds and structures of Somalian, was somehow a way to reinvent a world to which I finally felt I belonged, to take back everything that could not coexist in reality.

Io conobbi per incanto Un giovane ambizioso Che per amore mi condusse Nella dimora fresca e pura. Alas, misfortune the most coveted privilege Not a solitary woman But with the flowering womb. I met through enchantment An ambitious young man who led me through love Into the fresh and pure home. My beloved did not want To leave me in misfortune.

E dividemmo il piatto E vennero i nipoti. But one more than all the rest Entered my heart perhaps for his freshness perhaps for his sweetness. I see him now running Running through the field A stray bullet A red hibiscus on his chest. But the force of love Can save my boy Bring him with the plane Take him to his mother. Quando ripenso al pensiero coniato per te, che ogni vita ha un senso, anche se sarebbe potuta andare meglio.

Af Dabeyl, Af Dabeyl, quando nascesti a Eyl, il mare era calmo e la luna era crescente. Un uomo che nasce con tali segni ha un grande destino. Lo dissero tutti nel piccolo paese. Andasti nella capanna ancora piccino. Come il vento fluivano le parole. Da allora sei Af Dabeyl. Ancor piccola le narravi di quando a piedi nella savana, raggiungevi la scuola per insegnare ai bambini a leggere.

Di quando incontrasti il leone e pietrificato lo osservasti attraversare il tuo cammino. Bella storia per spaventare i bambini che vanno in giro da soli! Tu, Af Dabeyl, almeno avevi un fratello gigante. Lo chiamavano tutti Fudde, il possente, e quando attaccavi briga ti nascondevi dietro le sue spalle. Trascini ancora il piede sinistro. When I recall the idea coined for you, that every life has a meaning, even if it could have gone better. We are all children of the wave. And I recall when you said that perhaps, the role of the Somalian intellectual was not really suited for you, that you would have fared better leading herds of camels in the North, in your small town.

Af Dabeyl, Af Dabeyl, when you were born at Eyl, the sea was calm and the moon was rising. A man that is born with such signs has a great destiny. You went into the hut still a kid. With the wet coal you wrote the verses of the Koran on the wooden tablets. And from there resounded your melodious voice.

Like the wind, the words flowed. Since then you are Af Dabeyl. This Amina told to your daughter, adolescent mother, stronger than you, who are a man. And she murmured your name: father I now recognize you. Still small you would tell her about when on foot in the savanna, you walked to the school to teach children how to read.

About when you met the lion and petrified, you observed it crossing your path. But we have never been in the Northern lands, that we know how things have changed. Perhaps the lions are still there. Wonderful story to frighten the children that go around alone! You, Af Dabeyl, at least you had a giant brother.

Everyone called him Fudde, the powerful one, and when you picked a quarrel you hid behind his shoulders. Since you broke your ankle, everyone took better care of you. You still drag your left foot. Poi dicono terra-madre. Avevi solo ventisette anni e il povero vecchio era quasi centenario. Ricordi quelle bruciature? Tuo padre te le fece per ricordare. Chi ha mandato il malocchio ad Af Dabeyl che si contorce per i crampi alla pancia? Forse una madre gelosa nel vedere tanta prodezza nel parlare? Af Dabeyl Bella maschera usare un oppositore politico per dare una parvenza di democrazia.

Che lavoro fai? Il consulente economico. Ma per chi? Io non rubo, dicesti. Ti portavano in giro nei convegni internazionali per dar mostra della tua cultura, per far vedere che la Nazione aveva gente valida. Ti prestasti al compromesso. Quante contraddizioni. Era stato un modo per sopravvivere.

Ora come riuscirai a sopravvivere? Il mare ti spinse fuori. Oh, Af Dabeyl, scintilla agile e lucente, volevi diventare una stella, ma brillasti invano. You always loved Xush the Light so much, after you finished the university in Italy, while many others preferred to stay, you said you had to return, for your father, for your country.

Then they say mother-land. You were only 27 years old and the poor old man was almost a hundred. He died when you were in jail. Do you remember those burns? Your father made them so you would remember. Who sent the evil eye to Af Dabeyl who writhes from the cramps in his stomach? Maybe a jealous mother in seeing such boldness in talking? At least at the beginning was the sense of justice, now it is only desperation. Nice mask using a political opponent to give an appearance of democracy.

What work do you do? Economic consultant. But for whom? They would take you around to international conferences in order to show your culture, in order to see the nation had worthwhile people. You lent yourself to compromise. Because already the cancer of alcohol gnawed at you. You were an Islamic extremist. So many contradictions.

It had been a way to survive. What euphoria when they bombed the city, the tyrant flees, death to Afweyne, this is the moment that I have awaited for twenty years. The sea pushed you out. And now the sea has been made saltier by the tears you cried in exile in the cold waters of the North. Oh, Af Dabeyl, shining and lively spark, you wanted to become a star, but you shone in vain. Io, sulla camionetta sudicia e un involucro prezioso tra le braccia.

Fissavo attonita i fucili appoggiati sulle spalle. Guerriglieri accompagnavano il nostro addio.

E la sabbia ricopriva tutto. Tra le dune scivolose, rare capanne. Uscivano gridando i bambini e le donne tendevano il braccio. Ne percepisco il sentore. Ora mi accorgo di avere le labbra salate. Fuggo dalla morte e la porto con me. Se non fosse per il viso sereno dei fanciulli.

Ondeggia fluttuante come pesce marino, il mantello rosso. Ora stringo al petto il prezioso involucro. La libellula si alza. Mio padre gesticola frenetico. Ma non sento la sua voce. E mi giro. Vedo il guerrigliero con il mantello rosso. Forse ha diciotto anni. E nasconde il torace con il mantello rosso. Come il mantello rosso. E tiene il fucile a tracolla. E vedo un lungo cordone di guerriglieri circondare la spiaggia. Poi al centro un mantello rosso.


  1. !
  2. Books in the Bible.
  3. Posts navigation!
  4. .
  5. .
  6. Crusading Against Athens.

Che fluttua, si contorce, si allarga. I, on the dirty jeep and a precious package in my arms. Dazed, I stared at the rifles resting on their shoulders. Guerrillas accompanied our goodbye. And the sand covered everything. Among the slippery sand dunes, a few rare huts. Children came out screaming and women stretched out their arms. This is the last goodbye. I can feel it. Now I realize I have salty lips. But the sky is clear, clean, pale-blue.

I flee from death and I bring it with me. If it were not for the serene face of the children. And I see rusty and heavy, an obtuse warship. A guerrilla raises the red cloak to the wind, the other grabs two edges. The red cloak sways fluttering like a sea fish. And it rises, from the obtuse warship, a steel dragonfly. A few hours have passed since a tender pulsating creature emerged from my womb. Now I squeeze the precious bundle to my chest. The dragon fly rises. My father gestures frantically.

And I turn around. I see the guerrilla with the red cloak. Perhaps eighteen years old. And he hides his chest with the red cloak. He smiles. Like the red cloak. He holds the rifle slung over his shoulder. But his smile is candid, open, innocent. In the dragonfly surrounded by steel walls, I look out for the last time. And I see a long line of guerrillas surrounding the beach. Then at the center a red cloak. Floating, twisting, widening. Sono di madre europea, questo mi distingue. Attenta che ti strappi! Goccerai sangue. Non sono pura, chiusa, bella. Quelle piccole labbra pendenti, sono brutte.

Le gambe immobili, un fiore sul pube, un abito largo. Insetti prenderanno la mia mente? Ci laviamo con le altre donne.

Full text of "An anthology of Italian poems, 13thth century"

I miei figli sono i loro figli. Voglio tenere insieme tutti i pezzi. Senza di loro, vecchie ed adolescenti, storpie e bellissime, bianche e nere, io non esisto. I am of European mother, this makes me different. A nimble adolescent. On the sand, among friends, I fall down split.

Learn Italian Online

Those little hanging lips are ugly. Xiran so proud, at the center of everyone. Will the winds ever take me as well? Unhealthy breaths that rising through my guts. Will insects seize my mind? Will a mark on my body, unbalance me? We wash with the other women. My children are their children.

I want to hold together all the pieces. Putting on a dress with the others. I am a woman as long as they exist. Saltella tra i binari e vaglia la palude della mente. Isla hadle si sente espropriato. Camminava nella savana per andar a vendere perline ai turisti. Isla hadle veste ancora anni settanta. I pantaloni a zampa e i capelli crespi gonfi. Isla hadle ha deluso la povera sognatrice. Ha tanta compassione ancora. La voce fluente e i pensieri aggrovigliati. He skips between the tracks and examines the swamp of his mind. He has a fracture that bleeds there between his ribs.

And the pain is so sharp that it terrifies him to touch it. Isla hadle feels dispossessed. He walked in the savanna to sell beads to tourists. His father walked to lead his herds to pasture and from drought. But the bracelets bring in a lot, a lot more. Bell bottom pants and curly teased hair. He still wears a little gold chain given to him as a gift by a whorish aunt who knew whom to make deals with to send him to study abroad. He still has so much compassion. Isla hadle wears leather sandals in the winter. The fluent voice and the entangled thoughts. I can no longer stand to see you unhappy.

The trains come and go. Agronomo, allevava mucche e maiali. Ha risparmiato cinquantamila dollari per la salvezza dei fratelli. Per uno di loro ha comprato maschera e pinne e ora va per mare a pescare aragoste. Ma il dolore non ha senso. Il dolore colpisce a tradimento. Ci vuole molta calma e pazienza. Con calma. Devo capire e distinguere. Vedo punti circolari. Un troppo vasto margine di scelta mi uccide. Voglio vivere in solitudine e addestrare la mia anima.

Voglio vivere in moltitudine e che con gli altri sia condivisione e vita. As an agronomist, he raised cows and pigs. Boots in the mud and a raincoat for the rain. He saved fifty thousand dollars to save his brothers. For one of them he bought a mask and fins and he now goes in the sea to fish for lobsters. Another became rich dealing in sugar and milk. You should hold pain there and learn to bear it. You ought to rock it, caress it, so that it does not eat your heart out. Much calm and patience is needed.

When you want to talk about it you risk betraying it and then it grows bigger and it takes your breath away. If used with conscience pain is a privilege. Pain is illumination and catharsis. Then light can come in, but that, too, must be filtered, too much life could burn you. I must understand and classify. I see circular points. A margin of choice too vast kills me. I want to live in solitude and train my soul. I want to live among multitudes and let there be sharing and life with the others.

Only love can save me. Ti vedevo da lontano arrivare, con grossi libri di scuola, e correvo sempre gioiosa, con mani sporche di terra. And I was the most beautiful actress, I only lacked the hair, the long and raven-black hair of the sweet and distant Indian. From a distance I would see you arrive, with big school books, and I always ran joyously, with hands dirty with earth. Ricordi di quando sul fuoco, preparai le anguille fumanti e rosse uova alla coque?

E tu Nureddin sorridesti Vedrai tutte le amiche, come saranno invidiose. E tardi, verso il tramonto, rinchiusa in una piccola stanza, udii un canto dolcissimo, di donne che battevan le mani. Do you remember the time over the fire, I prepared the smoking eels and red egg a la coque?

And you smiled, Nureddin. All that gold weighed heavily. And later, towards sunset, locked up in a small room, I heard a very sweet song, of women that clapped their hands. I thought that it was already time: the buranbur had begun. Resign yourself today little one, for you can be a bride only once. It was thus that I saw you arrive, from a distance and the sun was red, Nureddin my most loved cousin and I had royal jewels and long raven-black hair.

In Bagdad he published his first works of narrative and poetry, working as a journalist for various journals. Currently, he is a member of the advisory board of the journal Al Mefiyon Exiles , published in Lebanon. In exile for many years, he now lives in Florence, where he graduated with a degree in the History of Islamic Countries at the School of Literature and Philosophy, after which he received a doctorate in research from the Oriental Institute at the University of Naples. His texts in Italian have come out in Eleusis, Varia, D.

From what wound do we come, weak wayfarers? There is the whole globe of the earth over our blankets, our cities are under the lead tent. Vedo le donne nude come vetro roteare in danze funebri. Ci ammazziamo nel silenzio, odo candele livide nello specchio. The cold covers me with ice and in love you are my isolated lodging. In the forest the sparrows crash into me the wind and the storm crash into me but your face was beautiful in the window dust the rooms are white, the stone is like soap.

I wait for your water you arrive where the night writes my silence and my drought. Because museums have bastard padlocks and my years flow into the canals with quiet light for us stone is bread, dagger the water. I see women naked like glass panes whirling in funereal dances. In the feast of the happy butchers I see naked cities, I see a knife longer than our days, longer than the season of peace. We kill ourselves in silence, I hear livid candles in the mirror.

Vestiti nudi. From piazza santissima annunziata to the church of san marco the public bus crowns us with its smoke and I under the wall of rain the cry goes on behind the window of the trolley and there is another cry on the sidewalk Dressed naked. I see naked cities. I soldati del mio tormento, inerti, sono fili di vento e di neve Sono queste ombre volanti, questo brivido segreto nel corpo. Oh, Hillah! Oh Eufrate di Nassiriya Nelle foreste, perseguitati dai trattori o dai grappoli dei fiori. The soldiers of my torment, inert, are wisps of wind and snow They are these flying shadows, this secret shiver in the body.

They are this overturning in the land of paradise, they are those that slip a sail into the heart of hell. Oh Euphrates of Nassiriya In the forests, pursued by tractors or by bunches of flowers. Ricordi il sale che ancora resta nel tuo bicchiere? Era questa la strada del riccio, lo stendardo della fame del lamento? Do you remember the salt that is still left in your glass? Who will save the country then? Who will save the water? Who will pour the honey on the table or in the tea glasses in the afternoon? And is this then the disappointment of the lesson of the living? And let the call of goodness rise virtuosly after your death, and let it make, in order to not forget, jewels of your dream!

Was this the road of the chestnut husk, the banner of hunger of moaning? I fari del martire e le sue stelle sono le stelle della famiglia, i nostri vestiti sono intessuti della stoffa delle farfalle. That was the affection that lights the wings of water. Sono di ghiaccio le nostre cinture, si estende la nostra terra per ingravidarsi di fuoco. And who among us knows the hour of night? Our belts are of ice, our land spreads to become pregnant with fire. Before they abandon the flesh Un palpito di violenza. A beat of violence.

Difficulty in tearing the quiet flash And then what, of an eagle that picks up the tribes of the insult? And what about its severe hostility? Then what will remain among the density of the city the bursting of the dam? Clouds spring tears towards the eye sockets, towards the suburb, beyond the debris and violence in the dark night. All has by now entered this time of history: time retreats fleeing from the door of the past and from the secrets of human evolution. Pioggia sopra il nostro espatrio. Colline di sogni. Signore della roccia credono la Morte madre dei nostri figli, la credono signora dei nostri poeti.

Rain on our expatriation. Hills of dreams. Ladies of the rock believe Death mother of our children, believe it to be the lady of our poets. Now I need a song of love that tells the story that I embrace offering my forgiveness. Neppure fuoco sui confini. Se abbaiasse sul tuo viso il vento Che rotolino i giorni e il tuo rifugio triste! Non ho detto che sono del nostro sangue. Non ho detto che i loro elmi rotondi sono regalo della sera.

Not even fire on the borders. If the winds were to bark over your face Let the days and your sad refuge roll on! You are following the wheat without wings from sidewalk to exile from paradise to fire or from fire to fire The first day stitched up your whimper, the Bedouin soldiers sewed you only some of them excluded.

And you are following the grain without wings from sidewalk to exile from paradise to fire and from fire to fire. Ho strappato la punta delle lancette che scimmiottano le ore della mia morte dalle ombre livide inclinate. E la pianta eretta nella sua crescita incerta somiglia alle nostre mani. Vieni, io costantemente ti chiamo, e la mia luna scioglie il ghiaccio della solitudine. Muri, eremiti sospesi nella condotta da ruffiani che hanno posto sotto la testa la pietra corrotta della mia mano, le mie mani tremanti nella marcia spettro della poesia. I ripped the point of the hands that mimic the hours of my death from sloping livid shadows.

And the standing plant in its uncertain growth resembles our hands. Come, I call you constantly, and my moon melts the ice of solitude. Walls, men lined up and prostitutes standing. Walls, hermits suspended condoned by pimps that have placed under the head the corrupt stone of my hand, my trembling hands in the march specter of poetry. Nella notte dicendo il grazioso sogno silente, seduta in quarantena. Tu, profeta analogo dal grido soffocante nella gola, lo sguardo fisso sulle porte chiuse spezza le ostinate barriere del cielo.

Questo tempo che io ho preso solo per gioco. Nella notte seduta, leggera, le mie mani si allontanano dal sibilo della frusta, e come si trascinano il lucchetto e la catena dietro di me! Quando con un voto alla stella di fronte alla finestra vuota io danzo. Mi getto coraggiosa nella vita. In the night saying the charming silent dream, seated in quarantine. Ah, but how heavy beats here the stroke of the clock! This time that I took only for a game.

In the night seated, light, my hands move away from the hissing of the whip, and how they drag the padlock and the chain behind me! When with a vow to the star in front of the empty window I dance. My reckless enthusiasm at the beginning of the trip. Ah, this autumn, vain cypress of your four seasons! I throw myself courageously into life. Tu resta, che non manchi la tua ombra dalla mia testa di girasole.

Stay, that your shadows will not be absent from my sunflower head. For friendship the tree knocks at the window. I know when I throw the noose, before the trip, the tree strangles me. The tree promised to your skeleton. And when I wait for death that the condemned from aligned trees know, the command that frees the space is the wind in the air. E la luce tremante, nel tempo del mio sonno, guarda la mia veglia. Avevo gli occhi negli occhi del vino per poterti bere.

Ah, my heart, you so soft playmate of the moon with wings bright and dark you delayed the entrance of the moon. And the light trembling, in the time of my dream, watches my wakefulness. From the tree no sign, all of a sudden the vase of color breaks in the middle of the sky. I had eyes in the eyes of the wine so I could drink you. The measured chalice of my age and the bittersweet slash of a rebellious love. He works in Milan as a professional educator in the area of drug addiction and intercultural affiars.

Sorry we still under construction...

He is on the editorial board of the online trimonthly of literature of migrationEl Ghibli and contributes to many journals, among which Internazionale, il manifesto and Caposud. His work has appeared in several anthologies of short stories and poetry. You leave a reality, an equilibrium, and enter in a new dimension, thus discovering analogies and differences, light and shadow, new noises, new sounds, new words. Feeling itself generates the need to communicate and make ones own emotions comprehensive for the listener.

Words are thought, emotions just exist. What is really important for me is communication, the possibility to tell and de scribe to others what I am living, without appealing to a bilingual dictionary. On the other hand, in the experience of migration words have the same power of notes: even if so few, one is still capable of composing a world of melodies, with infinite vibrations in the musician as well as in the listener. He lives in Trent. Gianmario Lucini has written about him in Arnold de Vos. I am a small fish not easy to take in, and this is not my home sea.

Distance is reckoned to be the breeding ground of desire, a stimulus to authors. So, I succeded for the first time to write real Italian poetry my migrant voice, born in Holland, was accustomed to the use of the Italian language since , while staying with my Dutch wife as archaeologists in the loneliness of the Tunisian countryside near the Algerian border, and then by myself in Tunis.

Forse ho preso da lui. Ricaduta a distanza di tempo volente o nolente la raccolgo, una forma contorta che mi brucia tra le mani: La mano non data. Maybe I take after him. From the blast furnaces of our silence some residue has flown. Fallen again in due time willingly or unwillingly I pick it up, distorted shape burning my hands: The hand not given. The moth-eaten sweater reveals with delight a body that wrinkles. Leaning against the front wall the new door is ready: you will leave the farm all in order, beauty composed for a museum exhibit.

Not happiness however. La rosa della rugiada spina la voce che espettora gli struggimenti della notte e la lena della luce che torna. The rose of dew bone chips the voice coughing up nocturnal heartaches and the force of turning light. Uno si affeziona al male per la bellezza, la vigoria e il rigoglio. One is drawn to sickness because of beauty, vigor and growth.

Even water is a gift and I carry the fertilizer which I eat from my garden. What is mine of botanical arts I gladly husband to a lovely plant. And if you have given me eyes to see beware, if it was to poison my life. Sono davanti al tavolo come davanti al muro. La parola mi inchioda, minchia. Essa ferisce e guarisce, nel mentre la vita va avanti e intristisce.

I am in front of the table; as if in front of the wall. It wounds and heals, meanwhile life goes on and gets uglier. Solitudine divina, screzi buio e luce del pensiero. Salvati con il frutto della mente se in previsione non hai il frutto del ventre. Heavenly solitude, you tinge the dark and light of thought. The seven days of the week are entirely for you: giving and taking is your advantage, giving and receiving reasons from the creations of your own genius.

They seek refuge where there is no refuge. Fra i due tramonti giorno e notte sgrottano il grande occhio della creazione. Dawn opens up to hope. Between the two sunsets day and night unwrinkles the great eye of creation. We have been created but not completed: the music is perfectible in the reed-pipe, necessary the sickle and the distance and the desire to dance on its foot.

A varcare stretti clandestini anche se non sappiamo nuotare: i cammelli delle onde ci portano veloci, a predare oltre. To cross clandestine straits even when unable to swim: the humps of waves carrying us swiftly to prey beyond. The ancient tribe of the desert blocked by frontiers, shuttered in cities flies at the height of the skyscraper on carpets woven inside the tent in the image and likeness of the rare heavens of prosperity, God willing.

They shatter on marble pavements already cracked, because the place is in shambles. I would have done better to cloister myself, but what clause is enclosure? Suffering for the beauty of creation is our tribute to the body that we rent. Insieme, e mai insieme. E lo hai fatto.

Together and never together. And you did. A crooked love was born that I pay off in solitude. My love is a basket weave with broken wickerwork everywhere: the wear and tear does its best but usage has broken the bottom. Composizione per la decomposizione. The old man stares at his useless clean poems, when cleanliness is no longer desired.

Composing for the decomposing. Penso alla mia lontana figura sulla luna che il bosco si riprende. I stagger among the tree trunks, an old bark my feet ambushed by the thick under-bush. I think of my distant image on the moon that the forest reclaims. Dew, what moist carpet you have put down on the mad planet where chipmunks rain down egg-shaped nuts while a church bell invites the spirited mob of this world to come to mass. He received a degree in Albanian literature at Elbasan and in modern literature from La Sapienza in Rome.

In he published in Albania his first collection of poetry, Antologia e shiut Anthology of the Rain , which came out after five years of censorhip with the editor N. Also his second book, Il diario del bosco The Forest Diary , suffered the same fate at the hands of the censors, but this time it was never published. In Hajdari founded with other intellectuals the newspaper Il momento della parola The Moment of the Word , for which he now works as associate editor, writing at the same time for the local daily Republika, and has taught literature in the high school of his city.

In Italy he won several prizes, including the Montale Prize for unpublished works , and the Dario Bellezza prize , and has been included in numerous anthologies, among which Ai confini del verso. Diario in nero Muzungu. A Black Diary, Lecce, Besa Mi senti, tu, terra mia incurvata? In questa dimora di pioggia un filo sottile ci separa Quelli che ancora restano portano i volti di quelli che partono.

Are you listening to me, my curved earth? In this abode of rain a fine line separates us Those of us who stay wear the faces of those who go away. Procedo nel verde consumato e non porto niente oltre il mio corpo. I make my way through the worn greenery carrying nothing other than my body. I will leave nothing behind! Immobile e forestiera in uno spazio imperfetto, mai ospitale aspettando che il silenzio uniforme della sabbia ti parli del segreto.

Immobile and a foreigner in a place imperfect, always inhospitable where you are waiting for the monotonous silence of the sand to speak to you of the secret. And all around it will go on, the frailty of things the vanishing of poets who connect the earth and heaven. They say that we will die in opposing lands. My years: a flight through the unknown and dreadful awakenings in the middle of the night. In Italy since , he lives in Milan where he has cultivated his interests in literature and culture through his involvement in many activities and experiences.

For twelve years he traveled throughout Italy giving lessons on African history and culture in a variety of schools, as well as discussing the themes of multi-culturalism. At the request of School Systems Officials, he has given courses on integration to teachers and, for three years he has taught Italian to foreigners as part of the literacy program sponsored by the city of Milan. He has participated in many national and international conferences, held in some of the most prestigious Italian universities Milan, Rome, Bologna on the topics of immigration, culture and literature.

In he was invited to present a cycle of conferences in the U. Almost every year since he has been involved in research, sponsored by centers for studies, by non governmental agencies, and by local as well as provincial administrations, in the fields mentioned above. He has published Io, venditore di elefanti I, Elephant Vendor, in collaboration with Oreste Pivetta, Milan, Garzanti, , which has reached its eighth printing and is being used as a textbook in many schools. That of the vendor is a difficult occupation.

Hard, sad, full of humiliations. It has taken some time and a few adventures before I arrived in Milan, where I was an inventor, because I was the one who put up the first small markets in the subway stations with three friends. By selling we earned enough money to eat and sleep inside. Not always, but often. By selling I also learned Italian. Someone tries to change his job, hoping for a quiet life, to find a house, to reunite a family. There is no shame in it. This is the life of a Senegalese, the life I have known for a time that seems extremely long, but all considered fortunate because, as they say in my country, if you can recount something it means it brought you luck.

A lot of guys rip up their staying permits and return to Senegal, because they have had it with Italy, the police, the carabinieri, the selling, the elephants, the ivory eagles, the necklaces, the Lacoste, the Vuitton purses, the hotel rooms, the expulsion orders, the seizures, the cold. This cold I will never get used to. Many stay and meet Italian girls. They fall in love. There are marriages, and then even separations and divorces.

And then more marriages. Children are born. E presto, presto, i vostri cavalli, e spronateli a sangue. Suonate le vostre trombe, eccitate e liberate le vostre mute di cani assassini. Cavalcate, gridate, urlate, attaccate, massacrate alle spalle questo sporco negro che ha il torto di assomigliarvi. And quickly, quickly, your horses, and whip them until they bleed.

Blow your trumpets, stir up and set free your hordes of killer dogs. The nigger hunt is open. Ride, yell, scream, attack, shoot in the back this filthy nigger whose sin is that he looks like you. Justice is done, here in Rwanda. Riempi il tuo cuore di odio prendi il tuo coltello e il tuo manganello. Organizza la tua muta, armala, di fucili, di solide sbarre di ferro, di grosse catene in acciaio temprato. Brucia i semafori clacsona ai quattro venti Fill your heart with hate take along your knife and your nightstick.

Organize your pack, arm them with guns, with solid bars of steel, with thick chains of tempered steel. Step on your cool machine and quickly, quickly ride it at full speed like a damned fool. Ignore the stoplights blow your horn to the four winds… The hunt for the nigger is on. Get him out in the open, and above all show no pity for this intruding filthy nigger who dares to step on your flowerbeds. A Berlino Indossa i tuoi anfibi, la tua redingote, la tua croce uncinata.

Gott ist mit euch. Eccetera, eccetera Fai come a Roma. E non sta mai a casa sua. Fate come a Berlino anche se siete a Parigi. Fate come a Parigi anche se siete a Bruxelles. Milano, Ginevra, anche se siete sul tram, o sul marciapiede. Fate come in Algeria! In Berlin Put on your army boots, your frock coat, your Nazi cross. Et cetera, et cetera… Do as in Rome. But quickly because you could miss the best part of the nigger hunt knife in the back and with no pity this dirty Italian nigger who stinks too much of macaroni and never stays in his own place.

God is with you. Do it as in Berlin even if you are in Paris. Do it as in Paris even if you are in Bruxelles. Milan, Geneva, even if you are on a bus, or on the sidewalk. Do it as in Algeria! Uccidete, uccidete alle spalle. Dio grazie. To the Indian because is neither black nor white. To the Polack because he is too white. To the one from Bosnia because especially he must not be white.

To the homosexual… and why not? Shoot, shoot in the back. That is how justice is done. Thank God. Ainsi justice est encore faite! Sonnez vos trombes, excitez et liberez votre meute de chiens tueurs Justice est faite. Suonate le trombe e applaudite! Puntate: fuoco Blow the horns and applause!