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Once upon a time, there was a precious artist who sang of images and places of the mind, once upon a time there was an invaluable storyteller, once upon a time there was a minstrel.
Once upon a time there was a betrayed Ungaretti who spoke of defeated generals, once upon a time there was a story that spoke of war, once upon a time there were children of mothers no longer with children.
Once upon a time there was a metropolitan dream, once upon a time there was the fairy-tale gaze of a singer-songwriter, once upon a time there were stories of gypsies, of lost lovers, of distant Christmases.
Once upon a time there was a sad snapshot of the present, there once were bells with a lugubrious sound, there once were overflowing prisons, there once were summary executions, once upon a time there was pain.
Once upon a time there was someone who, before making the '68, had made the '56, it was the Christmas when tank photographs were glued onto pieces of cardboard, once upon a time there was the taste of memory, once upon a time.
Once upon a time there was De Gregori, now he is no more.
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