Out breathe. For the first time we were afraid. The bombs continued to rain.
(Agota Kristof - Trilogy of the City of k.)
(Agota Kristof - Trilogy of the City of k.)
excessive Palermo, distress and delirium. Palermo excessive and embarrassing. Palermo martyrdom. From the port of palm trees and wind, steeped in the aroma of anchovies and oil vessels direct access to poor areas that burst directly from the dust of the cove and out of the sea.
Palermo face sacred and holy spirit, the belly of a young widow who comes from the sea, from far away, for ever and ever, who has a thousand faces, but in arm its streets, and cradle them and nursed them, like a concerned mother and patient, and the Vucciria Kalsa resemble his veins swollen with blood boiling, those lanes are similar to streams of water, currents in moist atmosphere which reigns tuff, peace and stale; light bulbs on the day on the stalls while the voices of the fishermen are wet and scratched the groans and shrieks of money chasing young women roll up and rush through the streets.
Palermo prayer and iconography of the saints, Palermo blasphemous and Orthodox. Palermo filthy. Suddenly, a cathedral, an altar, or even just a church, whose walls, ointments incensed by the sea, are a mixture of gray, cement and salt. Everywhere there is a crowding of buildings in a different time, different each other, sung in a single color and dissonant, senseless, quell'ocra ancient African sands that refers to the soft tones of kerosene lamps, Moroccan architecture up to the majestic whims of the eastern caliphs. From Kalsa to Porta Nuova through Pretoria, Santa Caterina, the Quattro Canti, the cathedral and the palace chapel. A color coming and going hungry, a melting pot of ages, a mixture of traits.
huge Porto, Palermo mother and her voices, those of the peddlers of fish, olives and spices, traders tuna and spleen stationed in front of their shops, with swollen faces of those who did not sleep. Wherever he hears their cry, a lullaby sweet and foul-mouthed, Palermo chipped, a language which is the return to a song, a sigh of poetry in which the long vowels and accents of bitter recall the enchantment of the legendary mermaids, and the verses celebrators of Turks who welcome the arrival of the sun.
raining a torrential downpour and surrounds the narrow streets of Palermo Ballarò covered with trash and stalls where cries of fruit and fish alive, no one seems to believe the water that comes from above. And 'the dark sun, prophecy magic gold wet all hoped the reward for the torture of a summer hot. In the market for all their arms upward for a moment and curse their business while shouting for joy, they bow to greet the arrival of the sea that comes from heaven. A Ballarò houses have plaster crumbling, gas cylinders are out on the balconies and the roofs of some houses were smashed, but the children continue to play ball under the covers, before the doors of shops and the gates of the churches. In
Kalsa, Via Alloro, just before building Abetellis, I stop in front of a shop with no sign that the shutter half-closed. Out on a sign is written in pen tablet Miezu meusa about € 1.70. By. Father and son have the same size. There are at least wide as their height. The environment is dirty, the counter is poor. The father swears in Sicilian dialect and cut into slices a loaf of dark meat and takes it collects in a bowl. I order a sandwich. The young man dropped the sliced \u200b\u200bmeusa left in the pot where it is frying and boiling lard, and a black oil. Li takes a few moments later, and without them drain it compresses a large amount in the fresh bread.
Palermo face sacred and holy spirit, the belly of a young widow who comes from the sea, from far away, for ever and ever, who has a thousand faces, but in arm its streets, and cradle them and nursed them, like a concerned mother and patient, and the Vucciria Kalsa resemble his veins swollen with blood boiling, those lanes are similar to streams of water, currents in moist atmosphere which reigns tuff, peace and stale; light bulbs on the day on the stalls while the voices of the fishermen are wet and scratched the groans and shrieks of money chasing young women roll up and rush through the streets.
Palermo prayer and iconography of the saints, Palermo blasphemous and Orthodox. Palermo filthy. Suddenly, a cathedral, an altar, or even just a church, whose walls, ointments incensed by the sea, are a mixture of gray, cement and salt. Everywhere there is a crowding of buildings in a different time, different each other, sung in a single color and dissonant, senseless, quell'ocra ancient African sands that refers to the soft tones of kerosene lamps, Moroccan architecture up to the majestic whims of the eastern caliphs. From Kalsa to Porta Nuova through Pretoria, Santa Caterina, the Quattro Canti, the cathedral and the palace chapel. A color coming and going hungry, a melting pot of ages, a mixture of traits.
huge Porto, Palermo mother and her voices, those of the peddlers of fish, olives and spices, traders tuna and spleen stationed in front of their shops, with swollen faces of those who did not sleep. Wherever he hears their cry, a lullaby sweet and foul-mouthed, Palermo chipped, a language which is the return to a song, a sigh of poetry in which the long vowels and accents of bitter recall the enchantment of the legendary mermaids, and the verses celebrators of Turks who welcome the arrival of the sun.
raining a torrential downpour and surrounds the narrow streets of Palermo Ballarò covered with trash and stalls where cries of fruit and fish alive, no one seems to believe the water that comes from above. And 'the dark sun, prophecy magic gold wet all hoped the reward for the torture of a summer hot. In the market for all their arms upward for a moment and curse their business while shouting for joy, they bow to greet the arrival of the sea that comes from heaven. A Ballarò houses have plaster crumbling, gas cylinders are out on the balconies and the roofs of some houses were smashed, but the children continue to play ball under the covers, before the doors of shops and the gates of the churches. In
Kalsa, Via Alloro, just before building Abetellis, I stop in front of a shop with no sign that the shutter half-closed. Out on a sign is written in pen tablet Miezu meusa about € 1.70. By. Father and son have the same size. There are at least wide as their height. The environment is dirty, the counter is poor. The father swears in Sicilian dialect and cut into slices a loaf of dark meat and takes it collects in a bowl. I order a sandwich. The young man dropped the sliced \u200b\u200bmeusa left in the pot where it is frying and boiling lard, and a black oil. Li takes a few moments later, and without them drain it compresses a large amount in the fresh bread.
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