'Ora che il ghiaccio è rotto, parliamo', a Group Show at Rouge project space, Milan

“In the violet of the night I hear songs of bronze. The cell is white, the cot is white. The cell is white, full of a stream of voices that die in angelic cradles, the white cell is full of angelic bronze voices. Silence: the violet of the night: in arabesques from the white bars the blue of sleep. I think of Anika: deserted stars on the snowy mountains: white deserted streets: then white marble churches: in the streets Anika sings: a buffo with an infernal eye guides her, shouting. Now my town among the mountains. I at the parapet of the cemetery in front of the station watching the black march of the engines, up, down. It isn’t night yet; many-eyed silence of fire: the engines keep devouring the black silence in the march of the night. A train: it deflates it arrives in silence, it’s standing still: the train’s purple bites the night: from the parapet of the cemetery the red eye sockets swelling in the night: then everything, it seems to me, turns into a roar: I in flight from a train window? I that raise my arms in the light!! (the train passes under me roaring like a demon).”

(Prison dream – poem by Dino Campana)