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Rating: A heavy grayness. If it weren't for those red flags lying on their poles, only a heavy grayness would be felt. Comrade Togliatti has died, and we must remember him. For the good deeds and the controversial aspects. He was an ordinary man prone to error. Like everyone else, after all. But he was a comrade. The Best.
Mouths closed but not hermetically. Pain grabs the heart without squeezing it. No grimaces. No lips turned into locks. But rather laid gently, like the eyelids that continuously scrutinize the ground. They leave just enough space to brush against the natural intermittence of the tips of shoes. No one ever noticed before. The steps are slow, and I can grasp some details that have always eluded me. A pebble, an uplifted heel, the damp edge of a long skirt or a frayed trouser. So many people.
It's hard to lift one's gaze. Too sad to stare at the sky. At most, I'd like to curse that sky, but in the end, what fault does it have? And those clenched fists that seem to want to strike it. Someone clings to a railing or climbs up a small wall. The throat hurts. A fistful of air wants to escape, but it's better to suppress it. If it joined all those present, it would unleash a typhoon. Today, it seems like there's a kind of aurora borealis. An unusual blend of atmospheres. A lush reaction of the clouds to the sky. What beautiful colors. They seem to be calling Comrade Togliatti to roll call. Will he hear the voices?
The white face of the comrade surrounded by wreaths of flowers. That stain that seems to animate upon just touching the warm petals of red roses. Lenin is also there, at least his shadow. It multiplies to absorb the people's pain. It seems to enjoy appearing in every corner beside each of those present. He couldn't miss the funeral of the Italian correspondent. What an intense life. The Great War, The New Order, Gramsci's Letters, The Soviet Union, The Second Tragedy, The Three Bullets, The Unconscious Epitaph, The Mistaken Invasions, Nilde's Love...
An intense grayness for everyone. It's a sad moment. Yet there is a stunned soul that seems to have more color than the others. A little more, like a signal, like a message. There are some forgotten drops of blood that exceedingly pervade those limbs. There, right next to him. Enrico.
So many people and so many flags. There's not even a wind willing to swell them. Today, even it seems sad, which, when we tread these same stones to scream for injustices, becomes a great collaborator. With its mighty breath to fill our banners, to raise our fists, to echo our voices.
Today it's just silence and continuous footsteps, a slight screeching of soles on the ground, and those eyes, swollen, that will end up wearing out the pavement.
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