Grotto of Our Lady of Lourdes
So I walked into a romantic moonlight stroll arm in arm with lady solitude. She never leaves me, and above all it was the only one that I hated.
M'inerpicai from the lower part of the village, going up Via San Bernardino.
Avevo letto nel libro di Oddo che il fanatico predicatore era passato a Triora un secolo prima che cominciasse la caccia alle streghe.
Il santo, sempre che così potesse definirsi, aveva lasciato una traccia indelebile del suo passaggio: una chiesa a lui dedicata con un affresco raffigurante streghe, eretici fatti a pezzi, e bambini morti prematuri destinai al limbo. Quando si dice un messaggio di pace e d’amore…
Il silenzio faceva da sottofondo alle mie meditazioni anticlericali. Respiravo affannosamente in salita, maledicendo la mancanza di un mezzo di locomozione. Gli antri delle cantine mi osservavano come le orbite vuote di una montagna di teschi. Di notte le vie assumevano le sembianze di cripte a cielo aperto. La maggior parte of the houses were closed (not in the sense that I was hoping ...) or uninhabited for some time. There was an atmosphere of charming sadness that after all I liked. A sign indicated the Grotto of Our Lady of Lourdes. I followed the curious claim. The alley opened into a roof terrace. Here, an artificial grotto welcomed the statue of the Virgin. The sight that awaited me was just very sacred and profane. Four babbazzi hair in pigtails enjoyed a bottle to take the Virgin, by making changes to the angelic face of the mother of God I found myself making a decision. The civic sense prevailed over the bourgeois indifference. They had the excuse of drunkenness that unites us, but not the political party which militated for. I hesitated because of the presence of a boy of his strong religious feelings honestly tried to lay a candle at the foot of the statue. The shards of glass rained on him, but he continued undaunted. When he thought it best to reclaim peace of mind to wash from head to toe with two bottles of beer left. The general hilarity not touched me or the victim. Drew her attention to their common appellation "dickheads", a title which could boast fully. Once captured the eyes, put on the table my civil reasons. The blued barrel of the Colt 1911 was an excellent card. The expression of two-bit thugs he was incautious of disbelief. It will not be
- mica true, brother? - openly challenged me the most talkative of the quartet. Unfortunately for him I was an only child and did not believe in universal brotherhood. Then no one had ever spoken to Thomas and his lack of faith.
-try it-the contented, quoting the late Guido Angeli, seller of furniture. I was not playing with water pistols since elementary school. Mirai
to one of the cans remained on the floor, centering on the first try.
The explosion sounded like a cannon. Triora trembled. Four of the Hail Mary as I had baptized, the curtains rose scoured their underwear.
excerpt from "The petrification of Triora" by Edmondo Ippolito Ferrario, Frilli Publisher
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