IL VENTO RACCONTA ...
The wind tells

My pen continues to hurt me. Any idea to me, whatever word I write, it seems that it is intended to reopen wounds never completely : those pro healed duced by half a century of migrant life. It is as if, while I write, my pen carries his work as a caving: she henters in ravines badly closed, cuts opened with sorrow, a long time ago. I know that you understand what evil can do - everyone has suffered trauma of this nature. I do not need to say that I thought to my country, to the ancestors buried there every moment, every day of my life - this transpires continually by what I write. It was going to seek the tastes and emotions of my roots that I discovered Ischitella. I knew that my father was born there, but until recently, this fact I had never particularly impressed. I saw death in San Paolo di Civitate and so buried there, where I was born. But the feelings that I met along Corsican Giannone and small ways to Ischitella scales were, for me, a special discovery.

I MIEI GIORNI DI VETRO
My days of glass

The days of affected youth who can not return; day adolescence, forced migration in Germany, Milan, Turin; day adults looking for a place, physical and sentimental, a day affection in which feel its place. These are "the days of glass, fragile days that only maturity inconmensurabile returns the value of sharing with others of their suffering of life, compassion, understanding, in simple terms, the value of construction of their inalienable individual and humanity.

DALLA CENERE DI UNA QUERCIA
ASH FROM ONE OF OAK

There is a special way to read the rhymes and stories of this book, I wrote it to bring order into me, giving my memories in a place which still continue to live together, without confusion, love. Love to myself and to those with whom I shared pieces of my way, things that have given me and I still care. But if everyone who reads my book, he does do simultaneously to look inside myself and the same inside himself, maybe smiles to discover that these echoes of the past in all of us, are like a modern computer viruses; install within us (sometimes in a little room the dark unknown to us) as that day in our history slips between your fingers. It does not matter if the individual experiences make us feel special and unique, the emotions are a litmus paper map that has the same shades for all, the death of a loved one or the birth of a child, the failure of a goal or achieving a goal, the conquest of a peak or a love, everyone laughs or cries for a thrill, although not for the same and maybe not in the same way. For this reason it is plausible that what prompts me to write a heartfelt thing, you inspire other emotions. But if my way will make you reflect on your emotions, you will stimulate a look inside and sometimes you will smile, I can ritenermi contentedly and you watch the world with different eyes, eyes full of poetry.