Guccini Francesco
Parnassius Guccinii
Samantha
F.Guccini
Samantha goes down the stairs of an equipped municipal polycentre
thirty years and then the apartment will be hers, or rather , of his parents
who every month have to extract the mortgage
from a starvation salary. But Milan is so big it's going crazy
and the uncertain sun peeks out on this Sunday in April
every stone, every door and every other urban ornament.
But Samantha jumps, she doesn't know of having deer-like legs
and breasts, as they say, in bloom, stretched over a still immature body
and Samantha, Samantha still doesn't know that she has a destiny as a model,
she runs cheerfully along the obscene graffiti on the stairs, almost a woman, almost
beautiful.
And outside Milan dies of melancholy, of the sun setting there in the
suburbs,
of cars of the return, families, brakes and exhaust fumes.
Far from the centre, it's almost another world, San Siro is a scream that you don't fully grasp,
cuts you off with a vague sense of infinity panic.
A gasometer appears behind black walls, your thoughts wander idly,
in the air the sky is something deep purple.
Andrea is down in the courtyard, wearing regular jeans and face like vinyl,
windbreaker as God commands and bandana tied to the wrist,
one foot against the wall and there he waits for her because he wants to talk to her, nothing,
maybe about love ,
but he doesn't know what to say, with the almost Lombard words that don't know how to come out
and he angrily lights up a Marlboro of alibi.
And they look at each other sideways, just an instinctive nod of greeting,
but Samantha's heart beats like hell while Andrea remains silent.
And she will return with the MS for her father lying in front of some channel
and he will meditate at the bar, behind a beer, which life can hurt.
And Milan seems to be there to embrace those two who will no longer be able to
speak to each other,
just touch each other in a vague moment and off they go.
Samantha soon he will change neighborhood for a destiny he cannot see
and Andrea will become the owner of a pizzeria.
And I, puppeteer of words, why do I get lost behind the first sun?
Because it takes me this absurd nostalgia?