do not know if one of the many pages written on ' friendship was never considered his poetic value. Or at least I can not remember. Surely the 'friendship is "one of the great consolations" of our lives. Those who live authentically being friend is blessed . L ' friendship, in fact, love is entirely disinterested . The pleasure that derives essentially consists in the knowledge of his friend and correspondence affective who spends a mutual gift of pure freedom . commonly speaks of "sharing " experienced by his friends. It is noted, for the most part, that friendship is the comfort in pain and are told, exemplary, episodes of self-help fallen friends in need.
To me, however, like describe the state of bliss is reached in sharing of intellectual experiences in paths of knowledge made in connection with his friend . And my desire is born from friendship. How good and beautiful part of me was made in the reports of extraordinary friends! Friendship authentic full of good ! For this, it generates a state of being rich in good contagious. True friends are "blessed ! They are "full of all good . The origin of the word bliss is in Latin "beatus " which is the greek adjective meaning μάκαρ ( makar), quality of their gods, state of happiness generated by being "full of all good." But these " goods "rather than owned, are treated who received them, become constitutive of 'being' the same . The gifts of friendship are energy highly poetic loving human being. It is not the words of comfort or praise or even in ordinary expressions of their affection friendship of which I speak! It is all over the occurrence of a presence that elicits knowledge . A friend and so there is not at the same time. There is, but beyond its own. I do not know how it is, but a friend that is placed in a light that attracts more than a real journey of discovery . Therefore, I believe that there is genuine friendship that does not lead to progress towards a higher knowledge , first of all to themselves! And what about those friendships that do not rely on words, but on an intellectual communion deep on pleasure that comes from living beauty you want, to love, communicate friend! It is this poetic a report of our great and beautiful humanity! It floods us with priceless gifts that produce discovered the joy of the most intimate and universal at the same time .
is recent gift of a poetic friendship also knowledge of the poetry of Giovanni Pascoli what I write as a gift. In
ourselves in listening to the text, we seem to take a symbolic walk , cycling. The time of this walk is real and metaphorical together. He spent from morning to night, from autumn to summer. Crossing a nature full of analogies , the cyclist rides on the road memory. Memories light up like the breath of the "little lamp" that "shines" in the dark. Dall'attimo of departure (the "Wake of the fledgling maudlin"), until goal, which is the starting point of the extreme ("slower than the small ring provides a heartbeat, and go ..."), images spend on paintings of nature," objective correlative "of the experience of suffering or courted. The mystery of life seduces us. The walk existential melts and blends into the life of nature through poetic melody simple and wise at once to contain the sense in pure sound that emits the colors of life ("the deep roar of the river" "a sea of \u200b\u200bgolden aspen made", "a beat ... I saw a row of cypress blacks"). The walk , nightfall, it closes the circle with the verb "I return" to the gently alluding life as a "return" , supreme until the time of death, when I flows back into the mystery from which was awakened to life. Punctuates the melody of the Argentinian images "dlin dlin, tenderly physiognomic of the bicycle bell.
The Bicycle
I seemed to hear in the hedge
the wake of a fledgling querulous.
One moment ... Understood the noise
dark river.
me he saw a sea of \u200b\u200bflickering
golden harvest. A
beat ... I saw a row of blacks
cypresses.
I seemed to cleave the crying
of a long procession of grief.
A heartbeat ... I had the wedding next
love.
dlin ... dlin ...
II still echoes the screams Unspeakable
crowd
I heard the screeching acrid
on the wet turf.
He said his words short
someone who was plowing in the plan:
you, when I said, you kept
the scythe in hand.
wing word I said, virgin
fleeting, to you, an old woman who designed the
only spoke with him.
dlin ... dlin ...
III
My earth, my tenuous road
you that you spend, or am I?
Who cares? I come or you go,
is but a farewell! But beauty is
quest'impeto wing, but
grating is the thrill of the day.
Even sweeter the rest ...
already set the night I return. The
small lamp shines through the dark city. Slower
the small rings
gives a beat, and goes ...
dlin ... dlin ...
by G. Canti di Castelvecchio Pascoli
