Grazia as a connection between soul and earth, wath we have lost, wath we should like to acquire. By Luca Fenu
Rough and archaic is the wood you sing about, which you love to savor in the intense and difficult to read woods. Hate piercing voices in the evening, benevolent songs at sunrise, the Nuorese has to tell, but only you have been able to hear it. Deaf to suffering, they have taught you this since you were a child, even though they did not explain to you how to defend oneself from certain mocking blows given by fate.
You know well that your land shapes you like a good craftsman his work, you let yourself fall into his arms oh Grace, your family was omnipresent in the spirit, like trees in a wood after a fire, like the flow of water in your dry rivers.
Roaring dirge comes from places that know mystical, legends were born there and some showed themselves to us, malleable minds, you were born in the darkest wood in that historical period to which a color cannot be attributed.
Meditation of the soul has no seat, house, bivouac or solitary summit, we know it well Grazia. You have carried on your shoulders sumptuous tales of stories with an indigenous charm, all that remains is to read your mind to be able to travel into the deeper literature that lies dormant within each of us.
Complex is the canvas that you silently weave inside the dark eyes of those who have seen everything there is to see, and still did not exceed twenty winters of breath. Not an individual of the human race has given you the necessary strength, it is from the hinterland of your thoughts that that wind that does not know of the Mistral comes and that has lifted you up to the oxygen-deficient peaks.
Low and squat the dry stone walls that delimit old memories, hard as nuragic towers from which the stone was removed, as strong as the word you imprinted in the texts designed to stir the conscience, to break through the walls of others and build your own.
The thought he left us is dormant, a Grace that is sometimes not cultured, understood but subject to technical modern times that little use the logical threads you weave. Hate and love, lack and forgetfulness, this is how it works with one’s nest, it is a relationship that everyone cultivates in their own way, your land has always called you through the tormented Tyrrhenian, has always spoken to you in the heart that adverse, loving hinterland and sometimes brutal and full of noble ignorance.
The maturity of the conscience was made a weapon, used in the texts and marked as if it were made up of single blows, hard and deaf like blind violence. Universal language that knows no culture in terms of communicative capacity, you brought Grace and its pure essence in the presence of third peoples and you came out sumptuous, with the King’s head in small hands as a sign of literary victory.
Silence reigns supreme, as a teacher of life, as a perennial meditation on doing, on saying, on writing, you didn’t have to learn this, we are born in Nuoro, pure in spirit and consequently essential in actions.
A pure Sardinian tornado, if we can still speak of purebred. No one dominates nature as no one can control the soul of a being determined to lead his own battle, to maintain constant leadership and never give in to influences that were not benevolent.
Ancient gods, perhaps the same ones whose existence you alluded to, thought of ending you, the sun always sets on the most beautiful, and the colors are better in its crepuscular, August 15th is a funeral date, it leaves us a strength that so much he has to teach, that he communicated a lot without raising his hand, that he marches in silence, like strong messengers, and this is what we will do too. Heroes fall in front of the enemy, statues and honors to those who fought daring wars, won or lost, Grazia had the concept of life and squeezed it like squeezing an orange on the palm of a hand, as if its history were not ours too, sardos.
