tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14743059824953144322024-03-14T07:09:32.235+01:00Una Storia in Due Righedi Giovanni PortaUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger405125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1474305982495314432.post-66364903439269508062013-01-12T11:05:00.000+01:002013-01-12T11:05:59.437+01:00Il Nome della Nonna<div style="text-align: center;">
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<strong>In quel nome la storia, di un’antica famiglia. Tradizione che passa, da una madre a sua figlia.<br />Nella foto la nonna, dignitosa, da sola. Un bel nastro, i capelli, sfumature di viola.</strong></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1474305982495314432.post-6516613563265937312012-12-31T20:23:00.002+01:002012-12-31T20:23:22.434+01:00Quando Tutto È Perduto<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /><strong>Quando tutto è perduto, ed il cuore si strugge, pensa a quello che hai avuto non a ciò che ti sfugge. Pensa ai giochi, agli amori, ai bambini e a quei fiori. Pensa ai sogni, alle storie. Sono tutte vittorie.</strong></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1474305982495314432.post-91840733930725657112012-12-31T20:13:00.000+01:002012-12-31T20:13:05.410+01:00La Forza di Ulisse<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /><strong>Ho un porto a cui tornare, un molo da avvistare. Il viaggio è stato lungo, ma ormai sta per finire.<br />Le onde, la marea, il vento, e quel tifone... Nessuna forza al mondo può strapparmi il timone.</strong></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1474305982495314432.post-92035694121627392482012-12-29T20:56:00.000+01:002012-12-29T20:56:40.688+01:00Nuovi Poveri del Mondo<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /><strong>La badante e l’uomo nero. L’operaio e lo straniero. Donna sola con bambino, vagabondo in un tombino. Nude, in strada, due ragazze... Nuovi poveri del mondo, mille storie e cento razze.</strong></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1474305982495314432.post-72813647463082344822012-12-24T19:47:00.002+01:002012-12-24T19:47:18.139+01:00Rosso Natale<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /><strong>Natale di neve, su un bel picco alpino. Natale di gioia, i canti ed il vino.<br />Natale di festa da noi, qui, a Milano. Natale di sangue, in Siria, lontano.</strong></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1474305982495314432.post-15292682463409380552012-12-19T19:31:00.001+01:002012-12-19T19:33:42.363+01:00Caos di Colori<div style="text-align: center;">
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<strong>Vento fresco tra le dita. Aria di pace infinita. Caos nei tuoi capelli mossi. Raggi gialli, arancio e rossi. Su quel prato colorato, la festa si fa gioiosa. Nella mano, delicato, bianco un petalo di rosa.</strong></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1474305982495314432.post-7697986856474098532012-12-19T17:20:00.001+01:002012-12-19T17:20:35.867+01:00Consiglio a un Fanatico<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /><strong>Un giorno vedrai, quello che oggi non vedi. Saprai cosa c’è dietro ai capi, e alle fedi.<br />Un gioco per ricchi, fatto d’oro e di fumo. E tu, di quei soldi, senti solo il profumo.</strong></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1474305982495314432.post-2830378516629572042012-12-19T17:13:00.002+01:002012-12-19T17:32:44.100+01:00Una Scelta Sbagliata<div style="text-align: center;">
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<strong>Ho fatto una scelta, e l’ho fatta sbagliata. Succede, ed è un bene che sia capitato.<br />La vita è una strada, mai dritta o tracciata. Ti perdi, nel mondo, fino a ché lo hai imparato.</strong></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1474305982495314432.post-51506631980327210742012-12-19T17:05:00.000+01:002012-12-19T17:05:41.038+01:00Siamo Sempre Preoccupati<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /><strong>Il nonno, dal letto, ci osserva stupito. Calmatevi, chiede, con un filo di fiato.<br />Dovete vederne di cose, e di gente... E poi capirete, che non serve a niente.</strong></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1474305982495314432.post-15937317536968853762012-12-04T18:02:00.000+01:002012-12-04T18:02:03.820+01:00Il Fuoco e il Nero<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /><strong>Un giorno terribile, le urla, la gente. Le bombe dal cielo, quella donna, dolente.<br />L’ho detto alla radio, e ne ho scritto la storia. Ma il fuoco, e quel nero, li ho nella memoria.</strong></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1474305982495314432.post-92008586885577736682012-12-04T17:26:00.001+01:002012-12-04T18:09:31.959+01:00La Ricompensa del Dolore<div style="text-align: center;">
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<strong>Non credo che il lutto abbia un giusto motivo. Che, dietro al dolore, ci sia un gran disegno.<br />Soffrire è morire, ogni giorno, da vivo. E non la conquista di un Trono o di un Regno.</strong></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1474305982495314432.post-53105724691660942942012-12-01T15:59:00.001+01:002012-12-01T15:59:38.489+01:00In Mezzo alla Strada<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /><strong>In mezzo alla strada, vestito di stracci. La mente sconvolta, ricordi ed abbracci. <br />Cammina, parlando, incerto, malato. Nel fiume di auto, l'ho visto e scordato.</strong></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1474305982495314432.post-4289968867810756092012-11-29T05:50:00.001+01:002012-11-29T05:50:42.878+01:00Attacco al Villaggio<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /><strong>Villaggio attaccato, gli spari, ed i pianti. Salvarsi la vita, fuggendo, con poco.<br />Ma indietro è rimasto un figlio, dei tanti. La madre si volta, e corre nel fuoco.</strong></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1474305982495314432.post-541736790781364572012-11-29T05:47:00.001+01:002012-11-29T05:47:17.826+01:00I Padroni di Ieri<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /><strong>Li guardo, accasciati, i padroni di ieri. Le urla, la boria, solo rantoli lievi.<br />L’antica arroganza, trasformata in paura. Tra tutte, è l’oblio, la pena più dura.</strong></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1474305982495314432.post-47054791481788004042012-11-29T05:42:00.000+01:002012-11-29T05:42:02.740+01:00Aleppo<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /><strong>Il vecchio tiranno rifiuta di andare. Terrore e violenza, ci vuole punire.<br />Le bombe, ogni giorno, sulle nostre città. E il mondo, distratto, seduto, che fa?</strong></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1474305982495314432.post-179578833415293242012-11-29T05:36:00.001+01:002012-11-29T05:36:48.862+01:00Daniela S.<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /><strong>Le labbra di gomma, lo sguardo un po’ arcigno. Le unghie, curate, brandite ad artiglio.<br />Capelli laccati, un corpo vissuto. E dietro quegli occhi, il vuoto assoluto.</strong></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1474305982495314432.post-36944943003406775162012-11-28T19:44:00.000+01:002012-11-28T19:44:06.910+01:00Il Bravo Cittadino<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /><strong>Fedele, ho obbedito, e sempre creduto. Mi sono vantato di aver ben vissuto.<br />Ma da qualche giorno, un dubbio mi assale... E se fosse stato solo un gioco crudele?</strong></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1474305982495314432.post-32709860436438851632012-11-27T18:45:00.002+01:002012-11-27T18:45:27.261+01:00La Fabbrica Chiusa<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /><strong>Si chiude una fabbrica, lavoro umiliato. Lassù, in un ufficio, un ricco assediato. <br />Cancelli sprangati, famiglie in attesa. La rabbia, nei pugni, sui volti l’offesa.</strong></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1474305982495314432.post-89446495052012872692012-11-26T19:37:00.000+01:002012-11-26T19:37:08.700+01:00Combattere gli Stupidi<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /><strong>Siamo stanchi, sfiancati, da una lotta infinita. Il nemico ci ha tolto anche il gusto del bello.<br />Non è forte e, a pensarci, non c’è proprio partita. È che è duro combattere chi non usa il cervello.</strong></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1474305982495314432.post-70596045959124025822012-11-24T19:38:00.002+01:002012-11-24T19:38:52.938+01:00Senza Rimpianti<div style="text-align: center;">
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<strong>Ho conosciuto un uomo, onesto e coraggioso. Aveva visto tutto, prigione, guai e dolore.<br />Con l’ultimo sospiro, quel giorno buio e uggioso, mi ha detto “è stato bello, lo rifarei di cuore”.</strong></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1474305982495314432.post-78509678500170427312012-11-24T18:18:00.002+01:002012-11-24T18:18:36.545+01:00Grida da un Altro Mondo<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /><strong>A volte vorremmo, tutti, essere sordi. Le grida, le senti? I lamenti? Forti.<br />Possiamo distrarci, cambiare canale... Quell’eco ci insegue, ostinata e banale.</strong></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1474305982495314432.post-9755416485136894232012-11-24T17:40:00.002+01:002012-11-25T07:18:22.997+01:00Il Bacio del Sole<div style="text-align: center;">
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<strong>E viene la sera, di un giorno qualunque. Il Sole scompare, là dietro a una duna.<br />Per ore ha baciato, davvero, chiunque. Chissà se è gelosa, sua moglie, la Luna?</strong></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1474305982495314432.post-1249581614510382812012-11-24T14:21:00.001+01:002012-11-24T14:23:09.981+01:00Correre in Salita<div style="text-align: center;">
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<strong>Ed eccomi in Africa, ancora una volta. La polvere, il caldo, una folla stravolta.<br />Provare a aiutare, anche solo una vita. Sapendo che <span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span>è</strong> <strong>come una corsa in salita.</strong></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1474305982495314432.post-12174805184946088112012-06-12T06:02:00.001+02:002012-06-12T06:02:23.582+02:00La Forza del Lupo<div style="text-align: center;">
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<b>Il grido, sommesso, di un piccolo stanco. La madre lontana, confusa nel branco. </b></div>
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<b>Intorno, il pericolo, la notte che avanza. Ma un lupo, anche cucciolo, ha fede e speranza.</b></div>
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<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1474305982495314432.post-578240447661648542012-06-12T05:15:00.001+02:002012-06-12T06:06:16.548+02:00Viaggiare in Silenzio<div style="text-align: center;">
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<b>Pazienza, infinita, con quella tua amica. Scontenta, indecisa, non ama la vita. </b></div>
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<b>Ha tutto, ma pensa che è la sola a soffrire. Dovrebbe viaggiare, in silenzio, e capire.</b></div>
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