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Versione 3
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Gospel [εὐαγγέλιον] is the good news or the joyful announcement, the word that carries with it a bright future.
Apocryphal [ἀπόκρυφος] is what is kept hidden from the eyes, for it carries with it ignominy or scandal.
And that at the age of one, Mary —innocent and wearing a humble garment, decorated with the symbol of purity— was brought before the priests of the Temple, and in that place left alone and waiting, is what the Apocryphal Gospels recount, in the eyes of those to whom they were unveiled.
Fabrizio, in the scent of human sanctity, eclipsing himself in a time barely imagined, speaks of how with the warm change of the season and the unheralded arrival of Spring, Mary lay like an abandoned object, bent and silent, in the Temple. And of how then, a woman among women and human among humans (as her son is a man and certainly not divine and haughty), from metaphor to metaphor and from dream to sleep, life was transferred.
But the stars which, contending for the blackness of the sky, guided an old man with his camel with that ever-steady pace, still guided the very play of these smooth and perfect metaphors.
Only by caressing it —like the rough hand gently caresses— the support in pvc and by straining the ear, can one understand the idea that, filing and refining, Fabrizio had the goodness to transpose into words. Between the first side, which speaks of Mary's youth and her solitude, and the second, which tells of the mother's despair and of Joshua —who is never seen except from afar and vaguely— the human death, in the moment it takes to reverse its course, elliptical thirty-three years flow by, give or take a day.
To announce to you the death of the fruit of her loins, Mary, is he who, like the old man who knew you innocent, works with shavings and nails, to manufacture pains in the form of crosses.
Purged of arrogance, the word penetrates and warms within.
And with a chiseled and apophatic word, of human death and life and the painful beating of a heart like an anvil, and of burning hopes and supreme emotion that in speaking of its reasons, the voice turns to stone; and of the man, of whatever man, it is told here, but not of religion.
That that man was called Joshua, that he was God made flesh, matters little.
But that Joshua was a man instead, is what matters; and that in human semblance, joy and pain, above all else, lived and shone in these clear and polished words.
Tracklist Lyrics and Videos
08 Tre madri (02:55)
"Tito, non sei figlio di Dio,
ma c'è chi muore nel dirti addio".
Madre di Dimaco:
"Dimaco, ignori chi fu tuo padre,
ma più di te muore tua madre".
Le due madri:
"Con troppe lacrime piangi, Maria,
solo l'immagine d'un'agonia:
sai che alla vita, nel terzo giorno,
il figlio tuo farà ritorno:
lascia noi piangere, un po' più forte,
chi non risorgerà più dalla morte".
Madre di Gesù:
"Piango di lui ciò che mi è tolto,
le braccia magre, la fronte, il volto,
ogni sua vita che vive ancora,
che vedo spegnersi ora per ora.
Figlio nel sangue, figlio nel cuore,
e chi ti chiama - Nostro Signore -,
nella fatica del tuo sorriso
cerca un ritaglio di Paradiso.
Per me sei figlio, vita morente,
ti portò cieco questo mio ventre,
come nel grembo, e adesso in croce,
ti chiama amore questa mia voce.
Non fossi stato figlio di Dio
t'avrei ancora per figlio mio".
(ej)
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