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This page should be read carefully and taking your time. Unless you have a flat rate provider, you'd better download or print this page and read it off-line, far away from Internet's fast time and back to the calm of days gone. Notice: words were translated from italian: we tried our best to do it faithfully.



Now the sun is falling behind the highest mountains and keeps on lighting only some valleys nearby.
The brightest light is still on mountains colouring the tops; the shapes are clearer and clearer and light changes from yellow to pale orange, fluorescent.

The drains below are dark, lightless, maybe cold and wet.

Here in the aisle and halls the scent of burnt firewood comes and the warmth of fire rising up from the floors below, where it comes the slow whispering of conversations as ancient as the world.

I know that they are not, but still it seems like I can see them, coloured children playing ring-a-ring-o'-roses on the hills, near the midnight fires.

I don't tell anybody because I'm rather old and nobody believes me; the colours remain secret.

Therefore, coming here to the window, indifferent I taste the scent of the evening grass, carried by the wind, together with the other's usual peaceful boring story, talking about this and that and they don't even suspect that passion is still alive, Music never ends, the concept is still as fresh as a young flower and the scene is all the same with world and life.

Little by little the color fades and turns deeper by the border of the mountain, more blue and then diaphanous, almost colourless; the mountains are getting dark, they turn to grey and merge with the dead leaves' yellow.

It seems like Jade is still here with us, souls of the forests, wandering music in old caravans pulled by horses, Ancestry King of dance. Modern Times don't seem to be arrived yet, the roads will still be free for this season, this year I will sleep with dogs, I will play trump progressive music by country inns like this, on staggering wooden stands; my wayfarer lyric like an obsessed old man is the same old best self celebration, I can be neither a hero nor a star, you have the same old best seat as usual but never mind, you aren't looking for other emotions and by the way my fun is different.

You are always all asleep when I wake up at dawn; the water pool is all coloured and masks are on the ground beside the extinguished fires. I take and hide them on the highest branches of the trees but you never raise your eyes.

Federico Ruoppolo



Music is definitely bound to images and it is only waiting; on the contrary sometimes music itself is waiting for images.

They remain still, ready to come out at any recalling miracle of music, so never be in hurry to connect them; much better leave them wandering around waiting for the right chance.

The Castle in the Pyrenees by Magritte is waiting, so Dalž's pictures are and so other images, pictures and bits of real life, the highest layers in the air.

Music is not in a hurry.





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