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To Stefano, when you said to me "...and then listen to what I do”
You had the misfortune of sharing the stage with people who shouted louder.
You had the misfortune of sharing the stage with people who, in a shroud of hermeticism, turned out to be more attractive.
You had the misfortune of sharing the stage with people who resorted to their wardrobe to make up for their lack of writing.
Your irreverent comic sagacity was never taken seriously by anyone, perhaps not even by you. You dealt with that suffocating existence with mockery, knowing it was the only way not to come out in pieces, even if when the sun would hide, the shadow of the cracks would come out. Before others, you taught children nothing
“I would leave children their time
and not a thousand invented truths
security, the job and the achievement
are big cancers for humanity”
You hated people's hypocrisies, the inconsistencies, the duplicities that your eyes couldn't help but notice, and your hand couldn't help but write, you a careful observer and storyteller of an Italy you always recounted in a clear way, without any clouded patina.
“I hate those who kick dogs and have a little fish in a tank at home
I hate those who go to mass on Sunday and then beat their children”
You were the only one who promised Francesco, Giorgiana and all those who, blinded by an idea, lost their lives; if the promises then had a negative outcome, it doesn't matter, you instilled hope, the most benevolent of all whims.
“And when you meet me, if you think of me
You should know the sun that shines is for you
And the grain that grows, and the water that flows
Is a gift for everyone, it has no masters”
So consistent as to have achieved freedom. The same freedom that has always been near to you, you almost forgot you possessed it, you took it for granted without ever underestimating it, you used to say: <<Freedom, and pardon if it's not much>>
“Freedom, how you have changed
Almost surely you were not you.”
With that ending that recalls a bit of the Fellini dream. After all, you have always been a dreamer. The same chimera that exiled you.
Today remains the utopian hope that you awaken from that illusory dimension and that a candid cloud of people sings and dances to your songs with ardor and unity, with the same fire that burned inside you and whose flame was never weak, that they are aware of how great you were - and still are. That posterity keeps a memory of you and thus be the ones to decide when it's time to turn around. Because I realized, dear Stefano, that unlike the dream, in the memory one is always a master.
Tomorrow?
Tomorrow is another day, who knows...
“And even today I see people dying
Some on the armed front, some inside a construction site
Some in a bar, flipped out, writing words
That perhaps no one will ever read again
But tomorrow is another day, who knows...”
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