is dark and cold, sitting on a bench in the first track, I read. At that time passes and Roisin Attila, with their dog Angy. bring me an ice cream, whipped cream and chocolate cup, a thought and wish you happy holidays. In response peach backpack between things that on the morning in the middle of Via Farnese gave us for Christmas. A him a red woolen hat, you have a bar of dark chocolate. We greet each other with wide smiles, are in a hurry, I invite them to come together tomorrow for Christmas lunch, which is organizing the Community of Sant'Egidio in Santa Maria in Trastevere, Lucia gave me three good. After half a minute Attila yes and no running back, behind the guitar and a black bag over your shoulder. So much trouble to advise me to go to the cafeteria of Caritas via Marsala, eat all leave tonight, even without good, though I still took care in time. Thanks. I finish the ice cream and I move at a time of one hundred and seven of Via Marsala side of the station. I arrived at the gate, the operator tells me that it's too late now, are closing and I can not enter. answer subdued not to worry, that if you eat late will mean that tomorrow is not a problem, they know the timetable. He says to wait, maybe I'll bring something. After two minutes, saying it has di entrare e sedermi al tavolo, poi mi serve un vassoio, primo, secondo e contorno, gelato. Sono seduto con un giovane ospite del dormitorio adiacente e con un operatore della mensa. Ha la mia età, capelli rasati, un piercing al mento, studia italianistica alla Sapienza. Con loro parliamo di questo mio viaggio e della strada, con il suo pullulare di vite e di gambe che la consumano come moscerini sulle vinacce. Finita la cena esco e torno verso la stazione. Cammino sotto i lampioni, attento a scansare le pozzanghere, sfilano come frecce le macchine a fianco. Mi fermo all'altezza delle poste, dove ho dormito le scorse notti, per fare gli auguri agli altri ed offrire loro alcuni gelati che ho preso alla mensa. Mi metto a sedere e iniziamo a parlare.
Sarkawi Sami is from Morocco and Libya. Ringers, adventure. Bulli, cunning, but in the end after a few gentle words. Together with us the group of Africans, Liberians and Ivorians. All illegal immigrants, veterans of the landings in Lampedusa long gone. They also speak Arabic, had all lived in Libya for some time. Libya is indeed a milestone for those forced to leave the Black Africa by land, after the long journey through the desert. And maybe you are working in Libya for several years to earn the money to the ticket for a trip to the coast of the phantom hope of a better future. Here is the better future, here it is hope: the road. This is the end of so many bodies foundered in a sea of \u200b\u200bconcrete as dirt of our time, private any rule of law, because without a card. Plunged into misery, and every day torn between law and crime, occasionally stretch the rules. And slowly tearing becomes the rule, and dries up the heart, the cynicism that remove dirt remorse and conscience, in a struggle for survival first, then for supremacy. Poor thieves. Social cases to fill our prisons.
ten o'clock arrived, on time and expected, boys and girls of the Community of Sant'Egidio to bring food, drink and a bit 'of fun. Along with the sandwiches can bring a nice climate, from that moment everything is contaminated with positivity. We are a bunch of strangers who wants a evening to turn away from another part to discharge the belly from resentment, to convert the anger and boredom, solitude and silence in songs, dances and dances of joy, as it is ephemeral or fleeting. Having guests, receiving gifts and smiles, as trivial and light, creates a festive atmosphere that soon becomes collective. A Liberian boy, drank like a sponge, barefoot and wearing only a shirt, red and green checkered cap, he begins to sing and dance along the stairs to the street from the Post Office, a number of songs bast. He does it in his language, are love songs, are songs of struggle. Nostalgia runs a shiver down the skin of others who get up early and join him, her eyes full of joy. An impromptu performance of tribal dances, songs, reggae and hip hop to the rhythm of a clap, in the drizzle last night gray clouds. They challenge the sky and the passers-by, they sing their dignity, shouting, drunk. Want to be happy and carefree, if only for a moment. Drunk. Their way into his jacket and boots and set off to conquer the night in the city streets on foot bouncing to the rhythm of the steps of dancing bodies imitating life.
the morning when I open my eyes, I see them on their heavy cardboard sleep, snoring.
I smile when I get up and roll up the bag, I think the good atmosphere tonight. Today, according to the Roman Christian calendar Natale. Fuori il cielo è grigio e pioviggina. Rari sfilano alcuni autobus, pochi i viaggiatori di scalo a Termini. Macchine, quasi nessuna. La città sembra dormire, sembra respirare un momento sulle note di una lenta canzone. Esco. Ho indovinato alla fine che sono gabbiani quelli scolpiti in bassorilievi stilizzati lungo tutto il frontone di pietra della stazione, sul piazzale dei bus.
[ Tratto da " Roma senza fissa dimora ", 25 dicembre 2004]
Leggi " Roma città vista di spalle "
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