the nights are beautiful and missiles cross
the summer sky. for a long time,
perhaps since time began, the eyes of our tribe, these poor
trachoma-inflamed
eyes of ours, have been gazing at the sky: but especially
since new celestial
bodies began to cross the starry vault above our vilage: jet
planes with white trails,
flying saucers, rockets, and now these guided missiles, so
high and fast you can't
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see or hear them, but in the sparkle of the
southern cross, if you look very hard,
you can pick up a sort of shiver, a tremor, at which the
most expert of us say:
'there, a missile passing at twenty thousand kilometres an
hour; a little slower,
if i'm not mistaken, than the one that went by last
Thursday.'
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i
too, sitting at the entrance to my hut, look up at the stars
and at the rockets
appearing and disappearing, i think of the explosions
poisoning the fish in the sea,
and of the courtesies those people who decide the explosions
exchange with each
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other between one missile and the next. i'd
like to understand more: certainly the
will of the gods is made manifest in these signs, certainly
they foretell the ruin or
the fortue of our tribe...
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the words above are quoted from a beautiful
story written by my favourite italian
writer, italo calvino. the story is called 'the tribe with
its eyes on the sky'. i put this
little calvinism' in my diary as another white pebble in the
daily stream of my notes,
for no reason at all. let us not comment on anything.
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the world may lack
peace and harmony, but beauty is always around.
it does not go away when missiles come.
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