Baby Papoose Knitting

REFUGES

At 21.00 recovered from the splendor of the Piazza della Repubblica we go in the opposite direction to the labors of the work, melting the first greeting prose everyday normality. For those living outside the city it is not clear from the start, but there are good shelters at night. These shelters allow it to float with a few euro, warm up with a port access and a few words without a mold, honest, and out of the night trying to sophisticate its silence, its violence, its cold.

The Florentine night is a night really sterile because no cats.

In the quiet places available there are few men, but the humanity of those who are behind the counter is guaranteed to be skinny and a short dress anonymous. The bar - the bartender altar and priest - are humble servants and non-judgmental.

Many times I've waited in these places that the night before taking away his weariness. I have spent in good company, discussing the most expensive things even through silence. Just outside, after using a good number of glasses, I breathed the night air with the lung so regained sensitivity by continuing to cool down my words among the ancient streets, adding to those of my old men who have talked about the same latitude, in Santa Croce, many years ago. In the square wreath of young and dressed in an almost extinct Christmas market (there are only turned on a carousel that maybe I wanted to see the stall of mulled wine, and a few tables still occupied but another kiosk closed) I recited these words, deep voice and mixed under eyes kindly thirst after righteousness:

We are the children of sick parents:

eagle feathers at the time of changing,

svolazziam silent, dazed, hungry,

about competitiveness of a god.

Fog remote splendor of the ark, and already the idol

or back of the human, and the top

holy Patriarch

one expects in vain;

one expects in vain by the muse white

who lived twenty centuries Calvary, and in vain

exhausted the virgin s'abbranca

the edges of the Shroud ...

and then my fellow adventurers toast cut banks of human faces with tongue burning anarchists of songs, thrown away in vain in the face of those faces without hunger.

Farther awaited the Holy Spirit, a mother's lap in which end late nights too true to be lived with clarity, while the body regains the weight.