The time has come. The carpet of leaves, twenty feet below, stands a chorus of sounds, sirens and howling as if someone was trying to steal all the cars parked at the same time an entire city.
is the song of the sunset, which is actually a few hours before sunset. Fell at the base of the tower I am in darkness, and only after several minutes the eyes reaccustom completely to the darkness. Arriving at the field penumbra became pitch dark. A dark living, inhabited by pigs, crunches, cicaleggi, hiss. Mixed smells of damp, hot, viscous. A dark interrupted and made more dense by the dense fluttering of fireflies. The fireflies ... It is a dip in childhood, when they flew back home to hundreds in the cold, in Trentino. I tried to catch them to make the lanterns of the gnomes. I remember the disappointment of this magic light of the fairies, who once brought to light turned out to be a trivial coleotterino color tasteless. It was hard to understand the magic that can not be brought into the house, which should remain in their world. But it was always magic. Currently there are no more, as the magic of childhood, such as gnomes, fairy tales such as: a thing of the past. But unlike fairy tales, has not dispelled the school, were eliminated in a few decades, pesticides from our fields.
I look at the small flickering lights swaying in the air and I wonder it will take decades to make a clean sweep of this forest, this darkness so intense and alive, its lights flickering, its sounds. And one day this night will not be the sweet lie of a fairy tale.
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