Catography # 13. “La ballata dei ragazzi senza nome”


(Immagine e copyright di Marianna Zampieri, pubblicato con la gentile concessione dell’autrice).

(Dedicato ad una colonia che non c’è più.
E a tutti i spiriti liberi e fieri di ogni luogo e ogni tempo. 
on l’indispensabile supporto di Marianna)

Scappa ragazzo scappa ancora, fuggi dall’ uomo che non ha cuore,
cerca rifugio nel mio cuore.
E se mi vedi, corri da me, non ti voltare, non esitare.
Riposa disteso in un campo d’asfalto, non sono rose né ciclamini,
sono soltanto una pozza di scarti.
Corri veloce, corri ancora, non cercare la mano sbagliata.
E se non mi vedi, corri ancora cerca l’anima che ti consola,
cerca l’uomo che si consuma.
Scappa più veloce, sul campo di grano e cerca ancora la mia mano.
Mentre correvo con te sulle spalle vidi un uomo più giù nella valle,
mi dava le spalle, il suo cuore gettato con gesto incurante.
Il volto ghignante, l’amore distante, le mie stesse sembianze.
Gli sparo addosso, gli sparo ancora,
il volto crollato non ci crede ancora.
Un giorno d’estate andammo all’inferno, restai con voi fino allo stremo
Sento la tua voce molto distante, disperso senza speranze.
Riposa tranquillo nel mare di grano, il vento che sussurra alle spalle.
Tornerò dalla valle, ferito e sanguinante,
ma avrò sempre un amico alle spalle.











Catography # 13. “The ballad of the boys without a name”

La ballata dei ragazzi senza nome.jpg

(Image and copyright of Marianna Zampieri, published with the kind permission of the author).

(Dedicated to a cat colony that no longer exists.
And to all the free spirits and proud of every place and every time.
With the indispensable support of Marianna)

Runs, guy, run away, still escape,
flee from man who has no heart,
seeks refuge in my heart.
And if you see me, run to me,
don’t turn around you, don’t hesitate.
You resting lying in a field of asphalt,
no roses or cyclamen,
They are only a puddle of waste.
Run fast, run again,
you don’t seek the wrong hand.
And if you do not see me, run again, still seeks the soul that comforts you,
searching of the man who is consumed.
Runs faster on the field of wheat and seeks my hand still.
As I ran with you on my shoulders, I saw a man further down in the valley,
gave me his back, his heart thrown with a careless gesture.
The grinning face, the far love , with my own appearance.
I’ll shoot him, i shoot him again,
the collapsed face, does not believe it yet.
One summer day we went to hell, I stayed with you till you drop.
I hear your voice far, dispersed without hope.
Rests well in the wheat sea, the wind whispering at the shoulders.
I return from the valley, wounded and bleeding,
but I will always have a friend behind the shoulders.






Catography #12. “Warm tears began to flow”


Obviously you can not hear what I have felt to do in this shot.
We were two of us alone in the crowd, but at that moment only us we existed.
He wanted to flee but he had trusted in me.
I cried like a baby for the emotion, unashamed.
This for me is photographing. A private moment.
But unfortunately there are no words or pictures that could express what I felt and will remain ours, only ours, in this moment of intimacy and love.
Closed in us. Impossible to communicate.
That breaks and heals the heart, in a fleeting moment of eternal brotherhood, in a true friendship.




Catography # 11. “Life is an organized despair”

Click to enlarge

(Images and copyright of Marianna Zampieri, Sabrina Boem and me, published with the kind permission of the authors).

We can live our life,
immersing ourselves in her
until to dissolve into the indistinct,
hoping that our emotional shields
can resist at her impact,
and don’t ask to us the word
can define ourselves.