Meet Bepi, formally known as Giuseppe, born in the resilient year of ’37 – my father.
And “Piccolo Eden” is his latest literary endeavor, the culmination of his creative efforts. Over time, he has comfortably worn the hats of a writer, a poet, a painter, and more. His works, in the past, have delighted the senses of a small circle of friends, relatives, and comrades. I imagine they once sparked the curiosity of his elementary school students as well as his colleagues, whom he occasionally gathered to concoct something different, amusing, and imaginative.
However, this time, his work, the book, steps into a new reality: publication on a dedicated platform (Amazon) and the potential for a wide audience. Endless, I like to believe, if equipped with the patience to read in Italian.
The “Piccolo Eden,” a magical garden, has always been there. At the back of our home. My three siblings and I, along with other adventurers who formed playgroups of around thirty people in the late ’70s, know how much it has witnessed. As the years passed, it became, for us now grown-ups, that quiet green corner where nature holds sway.
And so, the author’s tale begins, inspired by plants and leaves:
Un manto di foglie
sonnecchia sull’erba ingiallita
del prato.
Si crogiola un fungo,
protetto,
al tepore d’autunno.
Scheletrico stecco s’inarca
e occhieggia colonna
di famelici insetti.
Angoli acquerellati s’impreziosiscono
mentre…
Continuous references to elements of nature, the fertile earth gazing at the sky; the sky, in turn, bestowing life upon the fertile earth, caressing it.
In the midst stands man: Bepi, the occasional visitors, the regulars; and then the friends of man and nature, a complete Noah’s Ark, full-fledged residents of the colorful Eden.
Emotions.
Emotions in witnessing, year after year, Mother Nature slumber and then awaken, more vibrant than before. Emotions that man experiences, as the seasons pass, maturing alongside nature.
Emotions that I invite you to experience with me by reading this small masterpiece.
Well done, Bepi.
P.S.: I’m convinced that from up above, my mother Antonia has already read it. Appreciated it. Another flower among the flowers.
I’m also quite sure that, while reading it, she must have found the lone typographical error that remained between one line and the next. Just as only she could, being a good teacher. But that’s another story…