There's nothing more to do here ...
Yesterday evening
The evening is coming down on the motionless landscape ... we go out on the terrace ... there's nothing more to do here ... echoes of voices from the past resound in our thoughts ... streams of us once more children running on the lawn.
Our parents talking peacefully, a great table where we all are sitting eating, laughing playing cards ... and above all unaware of our future.
Some of my best childhood memories are in this great house overlooking the hill, downthere in the distance the lake silent and placid like thousand others evenings ... just like this evening.
There's nothing more to do here ... it's only our little world crumbling ... little by little our world disapperars while out there the evening is coming down like a curtain.
The places remain intacts ... only the voices run out ...
In certains traditions is used to say that every people dying is like a library burning,
this is true for us too.
There are moments that haven't been written anywhere, family memories handed down by voice ... and every voice turning off let these memories fading.
We walk down the hill. I'm with my mother and my sister.
We are the survivors and the caretakers of many dear memories.
Between the narrow and beloved streets the lake appears glittering of lights.
All around a lot of little villages enlightened in the distance.
Looks like a metropolis and yet it's not.
It's our little world, the most loved place ... despite the way of the life had lead us in a lot
of amazing places the soul has been always here in this place where the memories survive and our voices resound from a time passed by now.
The places remain intacts ... only the voices run out ...
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