Photo by Monica Grabkoska on Unsplash

THE BIRTHDAY PARTY IS OVER

children’s cries echo

bouncing off answering walls —

sweet crumbs on the flat


Photo by Felipe Tavares on Pexels

The days are getting shorter, I observe —

the summer heat that makes me flap a magazine like a fan, lasting 2–3 hours.

I feel the enchanting song of crickets and cicadas in August, deafening with the setting sun and gentle as a lullaby in the evening —

fading.

It’s funny how I have heard it suddenly.

Submerged as I am by a world of sounds,

it is the last discreet signal that the season of my nostalgia —

is becoming something different.

In the villages of my valley, September is the month par excellence for

festivals and fireworks.

The night goes boom, filled with light and colours.

A last snapshot of a magical time that nobody

wants to say goodbye to

but —

that cannot be stopped.


Photo by Mihaly Kole on Unsplash

Bales of straw with the

sun inside, they do Stonehenge —

the sky, extra pale


Photo by David Roberts on Pexels

amphibians living

both on dry land and water.

They are said to fly.


This is the story of a duck that flew south in the fall,
I know very well because Pocket Coffee chocolates disappear from the shelves of the checkout counters in supermarkets when the ducks fly away.

The coffee-filled pralines are an all-Italian delicatessen that will reappear
in spring, like ducks.

I live in a country village that I love for its 360 ° horizons that open up onto sunrises, sunsets —

or passing high-flying planes going to or from Bologna airport.

And in autumn, onto flocks of ducks forming that unmistakable inverted V shape, flying in perfect synchrony like the…


Photo by Samatha Kennedy on Unsplash

stargazing at night,

longing to take off for space

like a rocket ship


Photo by Om-Prakash-Sethia on Unsplash

his hands clasped tightly —

her hands crossed in her wide lap —

held words in their palms.


Photo by Nathan McBride on Unsplash

I like to write creatively,
but I’m a practical person.

For this reason, finding myself in a difficult situation in evolution,
I decided to go to a civil lawyer, already
several years ago.

He knows a lot about me and the situation.

He invites me to continue writing and to continue to cultivate my interesting and particular passions,
including Geopolitics.

For more than two years, I have been meeting with a psychotherapist approximately every two weeks, delivering written reports on the events of the previous 15 days.

Reports I usually write straight away, without contradictions even after months.

Reports and…


Photo by Lua Valentia on Unsplash

messy wet hair strings

like bold shade, in the sun —

cicadas’ halo.


Photo by Piero Tasso own work-by Wikipedia

The story of an Italian
writer Roberto
Saviano,
who investigated the
illicit trafficking of the
Camorra by receiving
death threats from its
affiliates, it is
fascinating.
The thing that most

hurt him and that he
denounced in a popular
newspaper is the
attempt to be isolated,
to be delegitimized,
and be removed from
free society by a
“Club,” as if he were a
pariah.

So it is enough that he
opens his mouth and

essential
representatives of civil
society, for someone
immediately blames
him for something,
from the fact that he is
a plagiarist, and that he
has an apartment in
Brooklyn — -
that blame him for,
“His obsession with
changing daily, of the

places to live.”
“So much you only die
once,” I spontaneously
add.
Saviano goes into
crisis, despite the many
readers who follow
him.
He feels like a free
prisoner.
Sometimes seized with
a sense of anguish, he

wonders whether it
was worth it to have
done the right thing.

I read from his
biography that he
suffered from
journalists who blamed
him for everything.

From he had to remain
closed in a hole for his
safety and that of
others — -

and for not to take a
plane to go, what do I
know, at a Literature
Festival where he had
been guest.

Attacks from the
Camorra, attacks from
so-called civil society,
attacks from fellow
journalists,
forced to go to trials.
Two local newspapers

sued him and his
publishing house for
0.6% of the Gomorrah
book, in which he cited
facts taken from the
small publications.
So he became a legend
not for writing an
excellent book, but for
being a plagiarist.

Would anyone have
bothered to do it with

such zeal for any other
author?

But why do these
constant attacks never
cease?
Why the Camorra and
parts of civil society
that act with the same
methods (only more
sophisticated),
before the killing, or

tearing apart, they must
delegitimize the
victim,
they have to get him
dirty.

So that when they shot
their victim, the crowd
makes sense of it.
“After all, he looked
for it! He had a trial.
He shouldn’t have
come up against those

people,” one of the
most predictable
comments of the many.

No experience placed
under a cursing
magnifying glass, from
Latin badly say, can
stand, nor come out
clean.
Because whatever you are doing,

you
will be

misrepresented as
worst as possible —

Roberto Saviano is continuosly a target of slander,
hit in his
human errors
and human contradictions,
having falsify his real life.

How much moral
strength is needed to
bear these heavy
blows!

Saviano continues to
live, or to fight,
because they are the
same thing for him.

Saviano continues to
write and sometimes
intervenes giving
interviews or anything
else in the pressing,

political, social, or
cultural issues of our

country.

And punctually, a part
of the mighty accuses
him of being a clever
man who got rich by
denigrating his land.

Passing against him as
in a refrain the usual
blasphemous
accusations.

“But why don’t they
take your stash away to
give it to someone who
needs it most,”
a threat to leave him
unprotected.

“But who do you think
you are
you who also had a
trial? “

“We have had enough
of you writing and

speaking, you’re not
the Oracle of Delphi.”
The refrains are catchy,
and people don’t forget
them.

So by this continuous
criticism, the image of
the unfortunate person
is more or less
unknowingly destroyed
in the perception that
people have of him — -

so conseguently
victims becomes
garbage.

Things do seem
distant?
Yes, it is for those who
live on the other side
of the world.

But for me Northern
Italian, born in 1958
and raised in a land not
yet infected with the

underworld until
recently, it was not too
surprising to learn that
my little village….:
(Source Wikipedia) On
January 28, 2015, the
Aemilia operation
ended with the arrest of

160 people in Emilia-
Romagna, Lombardy,

Piedmont, Veneto,
Calabria and Sicily of

the prosecutors of
Bologna, Catanzaro,
and Brescia including
affiliates of the Grande
Aracri and the alleged
head of Reggio Emilia
Nicolino Sarcone, the
group leader of Fi di
Reggio Emilia,
Giuseppe Pagliani.
People are accused of:
mafia-type association,

illegal extortion,
exploitation, port and
possession of weapons,
fictitious registration of
assets, re-use of the
capital of illicit origin,
issue of invoices for
non-existent operations
[15] [16].
In January 2016, it was
decided not to dissolve
the municipality of

Finale Emilia even if
the prefectural access
commission had
declared “the
municipality’s no
impermeability to
infiltrations”.

Yes, my municipality
is not impermeable to
the Ndrangheta.

Ndrangheta today is
considered the most
powerful, rich and one
of the most ruthless
mafia in the world.
What is the thing that
grieves me most as a woman
who has seen the evolution
of life and mental uses over
time?

The most painful thing is the
fact that a part of the society
in which I live, especially as
regards the most the mighty,

has put aside the ethics that
once guided choices and
decisions (even if with
cunningness they use it as a
mirror for larks).

Now in my opinion more than to the Greek
Judaic and Latin roots it is to
Ludovico Macchiavelli that
they refer —
whose motto says:
“The end justifies the
means”
.

By all means . — -
with endless excuses — -
at any cost.

Note:Unfortunately, not few
people find themselves as
Saviano in similar
situations.
Fortunate are those who
delight in written — -

a story written months ago with my real name, Francesca Brandani.

It’s me Haiku Poetry

Haiku Poetry

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