MANU DI PATRI

Scrissi occa ggiriata di luna arreri:                                                                                                        

 “ Si sta lavannu mo’ patri,                                                                                                                     

 e sentu l’acqua sbattuta.                                                                                                                         

’I so’ manu pigghiunu ’a vita                                                                                                                 

 e mi pari di vidillu pinsari                                                                                                         

 all’acqua dê so’ matinati ’i ’na vota.                                                                                                 

 Ora finiu, chiusi ’a porta,                                                                                                                    

non sapi ca l’acqua di ’sta penna                                                                                                          

nô po fari turnari arreri                                                                                                                 

quannu l’acqua dô celu                                                                                                                     

 s’ha pigghiatu ’i so’ manu …”                                                                                                       

Tannu si lavavunu ’i so’ manu                                                                                                               

– manu caddusi –                                                                                                                                    

e comu sicchiu ’nfatatu                                                                                                    

rricugghievunu suli                                                                                                                          

 frutti di tutti ’i staçiuni                                                                                                                            

e ’i nostri affetti.                                                                                                               

Accarizzavunu e tastavunu                                                                                                              

comu vucca                                                                                                                                     

 comu occhi                                                                                                                                             

 i culura dô salamarigghiu^*                                                                                                                       

i sapura di l’arcubaleni                                                                                                                          

dê jorna…                                                                                                                                        

Tuttu putevunu ’i so’ manu                                                                                                                 

ccô sicchiu ’nfatatu                                                                                                                             

nnô puzzu dâ vita.                                                                                                                               

Ma tannu c’era l’acqua                                                                                                                          

 e i so’ manu,                                                                                                                                        

ora c’è sulu ’u celu                                                                                                                        

 latruni e senza funnu. 

MANI DI PADRE– Scrissi qualche girata di luna fa:/ “Si sta lavando mio padre,/ e sento l’acqua sbattuta./ Le sue mani prendono la vita / e mi sembra di vederlo pensare/ all’acqua delle sue mattinate d’un tempo./ Ora ha finito, ha chiuso la porta,/ non sa che l’acqua di questa penna/ non potrà farlo tornare indietro/ quando l’acqua del cielo/ si prenderà le sue mani …”// Allora si lavavano le sue mani/ – mani callose –/ e come secchio fatato/ raccoglievano sole/ frutti di tutte le stagioni/ e i nostri affetti./ Accarezzavano e assaggiavano/ come bocca/ come occhi/ i colori del salmoriglio/ i sapori degli arcobaleni/ dei giorni …/ Tutto potevano le sue mani/ col secchio fatato/ nel pozzo della vita.// Ma allora c’era l’acqua/ e le sue mani,/ ora c’è solo il cielo/ ladrone e senza fondo.

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*Salmoriglio: salsa a base di olio e succo di limone o aceto.

 poesia di Giuseppe Samperi  da Sarmienti Scattiati