Written by Flavia Bocchio.
The morning opened in orange blossom smiles. The clear sky, the still air. There were her babysitters and lizards, in a heat without sidewalks.
It was too early to enter his house. We stopped at a village bar a few meters away. The majolica mixed with the brandy, the parishioners had understood us without detaching themselves from their usual speeches. We take a coffee and then wait for the streets of Fuente Vaqueros.
The leafy orange trees with freckles of certain youth bordered the verandas, their drawings were the imprint of their poetry. The fragrance of olive trees marked the identity of their land. I finally understood that “green that I love you green” of his rhymes
It was 10.00 in the morning. We enter. It was not a museum before my eyes, it was his house. He managed to see his childhood in every corner.
While Simone toured the place, I stopped at her room.
Me: - Poet, what are the sounds of your silence?
Poet: - Those who listen, those who enclose this land that accompanies me
Me: - They are silences full of music.
Poet: - Silence always takes her, you have to know how to listen to her
Me: - And how do you do it?
P: - Well, I feel and listen to it, since I was a child I did it without wondering why. That is the secret of music in silence. Their strings are innumerable like the fingers that make them vibrate.