The tower blocks have a look greasy and heavy, the iron railings are skinned mold and rust. Barra a tangle of sheets unattended, abandoned warehouses and sturdy railings that smell of naphtha and asphalt. The air is pulled from the wind lime, brick dust and the rough outline is the ravings of a black sky that shines with asbestos and coal. There are too many clothes on the balconies crowded, simply left for drying, while the sewer overflow the same stale and rancid water that never ends in any sea. Barra is a land without boundary, without movement, and opened an empty field behind the doors locked with heavy steel bolts. The road crosses all countries above the capital. At one time the Golden Mile, now Ponticelli, San Giorgio a Cremano, Herculaneum, St. John Teduccio and a bar. My father in these places there he spent his youth and now look at them with eyes that have the polished patina of old age, the itching of modesty. Marturriello killed a man during a fight and that was how the family died a few months after he killed his brother. To even the score. It was the 60's and so settled the disputes of the road. In silence, in darkness. Where today there was a fishmonger and a fruit shop in place of the cinema is a wholesaler of China, while the statue in the square was moved inside. Heaps everywhere. Toni lived in that base. In the house took turns to sleep because they were too many. The course is known for Siren shootings and children killed by the news and remember the corners of the beams that cross the main street of the obituaries remind us who's gone from very little. Ciro babble said Capito, said Oreste Capart O son do 'lion. I'm not even four, we make way through the brown faces and the eyes of those teams you from head to toe. An old car stops in the middle of the road. Down two Chinese women, mother and daughter, and runs to lift the gate. The flags of the fishing boats shining in the darkness of the alleys. Top stand their hearts, the colors of blood and sweat of those who bear the Virgin Mary in her arms throughout the year. The Feast of the Giglio is still far, but clubs are already in ferment. Blood devotee who bears the effort. In all the bars there are photos of the feast of Our Lady. From Naples bar is not seen, yet it is just there, where the motorway ends.
