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Nothing.

Music.
Music you like. Music you hate. Why. Why not? Religious music. Hardrock metal punk funk. Cartoon opening. Character themes.

It's music? That's the place.

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I'll start with LOMBARDIA, of the band Mercanti di Liquore (Liqueur Merchants). Not only because i live in Lombardia and i am a proud Lombardian, but because only lombards gets the depth of this song that foreigners might only find ear-pleasurable.


We landed in Brianza (North of Milano) like a 747
We grew half-hidden like poisonous chestnuts
Queen Teodolinda (Mighty queen of Lombardia) winked at us
But we, unpolitely, didn't bowed

We've learnt guitar in order to have an occasion
For the fear of feeling like an armchair in Lissone (City known for its wodd-craftmanship)
But we transformed in mercenaries
To try to climb this steep plain

Lombardia, how's easy to hate you
You don't smile
You like to mistreat
But we are the wrong sons
Born inside a drunken hole
And we can still breathe, even being in Lombardia

In Milano we built a crystal carousel (economic frauds of the '90s)
But a rain of coins (people almost killed politicians by throwing coins) destroyed that carousel on the happies tune
We've flown in the working quarters
Because below rubbish, there's magic

The night grew more and more drunk
We've learnt how to walk like criminals
The smell of asphalt and the name of knives
We became rubbish... we became awesome

Lombardia, how's easy to hate you
You don't smile
You like to mistreat
But we are the wrong sons
Born inside a drunken hole
And we can even fly, even by being in Lombardia

When the storm came, it surprised us
But we grabbed it by the tail
and shoved it in a bag over Lecco (city)
Even the lake was kind, and told us a mistery
With the promise to not tell anyone

We've took few stars from the nights of Bergamo (other city)
While Devil laughed at us we stole his oatmeal
Then asked to the mountain to sing a song
and in the valley, everyone fell in love

Lombardia, how's easy to hate you
You don't smile
You like to mistreat
But we are the wrong sons
Born inside a drunken hole
And we can still breathe, even being in Lombardia

We bet on a life of struggle
Just like when you call the "2" at Briscola (a game of card)
We're not ashamed by bad words or din
Because even the black eye can see far away

(that's my favourite part)
Then don't blame us if we're not revered
It's hard to talk with the mouthguard
If you don't want to love us,
at least stay with us...

Goodnight, Lombardia

The art of extracting unheard sadness from unanimate things: a dead end, a corner of a city, now blind, sits and begs for coins.



______________________
I saw him every night,
along the Grand Beaulevard
Dirty and filthy at a corner he stayed there, everyday
melancholic and mute

I saw him every night,
and i stopped to watch him
he've never noticed me
but once, his voice i heard

Please do charity
to a poor "dead end"
I've my heart full of kindness
even if i am ugly, if i am miserable
surely is not for my will
but the reason you know what's it?
It's due to my sickness

After a year of absence i returned
along the Grand Beaulevard
Suddently remembering him, i wanted to search him again
and my eyes wandered
But in his place, surpised, i saw
an elegand hood
"He's gone", i murmured
But in the air, i've heard his voice again

Please do charity
to a poor "dead end"
I've my heart full of kindness
even if i am ugly, if i am miserable
surely is not for my will
but the reason you know what's it?
It's due to this great civilty (x2)

Do charity, sir
Do charity, sir

Do charity, sir, to a poor dead end

...please sir, do charity.