(English version of my Italian creative writing exercise for this week ‘Gola e Temperanza’ – Italian original follows.)

He left at dawn, while the house remained held in a dense, unmoving quiet. He did not shut the door behind him, only drew it almost closed, as though afraid of disturbing not a person but a presence. The objects filled the rooms with a mute gravity. They were not in disarray. They were simply too many, and they resisted touch.
He could no longer breathe there.
Any suggestion of making space—a carefully worded sentence, a tentative gesture—met the same refusal. She did not raise her voice or protest. Her body stiffened; her gaze slipped away, as if some inner boundary had been crossed.
‘No,’ she said.
It was enough.
Only later did he understand that it was not disorder. It was defence.
When the order came to clear the house, Clara knew at once that this was not a practical task. They spoke of cleaning, of returning to essentials, of moderation—reasonable words, even virtuous ones. Her body answered differently: trembling, nausea, a dull pressure in the chest.
The first box took her breath.
Inside were small, worn objects: a doll with one eye missing, a toy bleached of colour, ribbons thinned by time. She lifted them one by one. Each touch released images long buried: a cold kitchen; a home governed by silence and obligation; a mother who believed affection to be a dangerous indulgence; a father endlessly absent, absorbed by work.
As a child, she had never known excess.
She had known deprivation.
There had been no dolls, no toys to hold. The few objects she managed to touch were handled in secret, as forbidden things are. They were not whims. They were presences—the only ones.
Adulthood gave her possession, but not release. She learned to keep. What she saved was not surplus but proof: evidence of having been, of being.
‘This should be thrown away,’ the woman said, neutrally.
Pain passed through Clara, sudden and precise.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Just a moment.’
It was not attachment to things. It was fear of returning to the original emptiness, to the child with nothing in her hands. Each bag taken from the house felt final. The rooms grew bare, but she did not feel lighter. She felt exposed.

When her husband returned months later, he found stripped rooms and a woman altered. More fragile, and yet more present. She looked at him as one looks at someone who might still choose to leave.
‘They’re emptying me,’ she said.
‘They’re helping you,’ he replied, almost without thinking.
The words failed as soon as they were spoken.
They sat on the floor. There was no furniture, no barrier between them. The house magnified every silence.
‘When I was a child,’ she said at last, ‘I had nothing. Not even dolls. Those things you saw—they were the only things I could touch, the only things I could hold. When I finally had them, they were mine. I couldn’t let them be taken. Not again.’
He lowered his eyes.
He understood then that what he had taken for excess was resistance. Filling the house had been her way of ensuring she would not be emptied again—not only of objects, but inwardly. His sense of order, of measure, of shared space—so rational, so justified—had arrived as a threat.

They left together.
The island they chose was spare: harsh light, dense vegetation, a sea that shifted colour through the day. The house was small. There were few possessions. Accumulation was impossible. This time, nothing was imposed.
Each object entered because it was needed, or because it was chosen.
A table at which to sit together.
A cloth for rest.
A lamp to see through the night.
Without the need to defend what she owned, Clara changed. Her body eased; her movements grew unguarded. Her beauty emerged without effort or display—a quiet sensuality of presence, bare skin on sand, a gaze no longer withheld.
He changed as well. Knowing her past softened his certainty, taught him how to remain. He no longer sought balance through removal. He learned how to measure without harm.

One evening, facing the sea, she said,
‘I know now I don’t need to have everything.’
‘And I know,’ he replied,
‘that not everything must be taken away.’
They lived with little.
But that little was never empty.
Each thing carried its own weight of meaning, and the greatest of these was the two of them: a love rebuilt after deprivation, at last able to hold measure and need, presence and limit, together.

***

(Originale Italiano)

Gola e Temperanza

Il marito se ne andò all’alba, quando la casa era ancora immersa in una quiete densa. Non chiuse la porta con decisione: la accostò appena, come se temesse di disturbare non qualcuno, ma qualcosa. Gli oggetti sembravano occupare lo spazio con una loro gravità silenziosa. Non erano sparsi, non erano caotici. Erano troppi, e soprattutto intoccabili.

Non riusciva più a respirare lì dentro.

Ogni proposta di fare spazio — una frase detta con cautela, un gesto accennato — incontrava lo stesso muro. Lei non urlava, non si agitava. Il suo corpo si irrigidiva, lo sguardo si allontanava, come se una parte di lei fosse stata improvvisamente minacciata.

«No», diceva. E quella parola non ammetteva repliche.

Non era disordine, capì tardi. Era una forma di difesa.

Quando arrivò l’obbligo di svuotare la casa, Clara comprese subito che non si trattava di una semplice operazione pratica. La chiamavano pulizia, ritorno all’essenziale, moderazione. Parole corrette, persino nobili. Ma il suo corpo reagì con una violenza inattesa: tremori, nausea, un dolore sordo al petto.

La prima scatola aperta le fece mancare il respiro.

Dentro c’erano oggetti piccoli, consumati: una bambola con un occhio mancante, un pupazzo senza più colore, nastri scoloriti dal tempo. Li prese in mano uno per uno, lentamente. Ogni contatto riportava a galla immagini sepolte: una cucina fredda, una casa regolata dal silenzio e dal dovere, una madre severa, convinta che l’affetto fosse un’indulgenza pericolosa, un padre sempre assente, interamente consegnato al lavoro.

Da bambina non aveva conosciuto l’eccesso.

Aveva conosciuto la mancanza.

Non aveva avuto bambole, né giochi da stringere. Le poche cose che riusciva a toccare lo faceva di nascosto, come si fa con ciò che è proibito. Quelle cose non erano capricci: erano presenze. Le uniche.

Da adulta, quando aveva finalmente potuto possedere qualcosa, non aveva imparato a lasciarla andare. Aveva imparato a trattenerla. Ogni oggetto conservato non era superfluità, ma una conferma di esistenza.

«Questo va buttato», disse l’addetta, con tono neutro.

Clara sentì un dolore netto, quasi fisico.

«Aspetti», mormorò. «Solo un momento.»

Non era attaccamento materiale. Era la paura di tornare a quel vuoto originario, a quella bambina senza nulla tra le mani. Ogni sacco che usciva dalla porta era vissuto come una perdita irreversibile. La casa si svuotava, ma lei non si sentiva più leggera: si sentiva esposta.

Quando il marito tornò, mesi dopo, trovò stanze spoglie e una donna cambiata. Più fragile, ma anche più presente. Lei lo guardò come si guarda qualcuno che può ancora decidere di andarsene.

«Mi stanno svuotando», disse piano.

Lui rispose quasi automaticamente: «Ti stanno aiutando.»

Ma appena pronunciò quelle parole capì che non spiegavano nulla.

Sedettero sul pavimento, senza mobili, senza barriere. La casa amplificava ogni silenzio.

«Quando ero bambina», disse lei dopo un po’, «non avevo niente. Nemmeno le bambole. Quelle cose che vedi… erano le uniche che potevo toccare, che potevo abbracciare. Quando ho cominciato ad averle, erano mie. Non volevo che qualcuno me le portasse via. Come allora.»

Lui abbassò lo sguardo.

Capì che ciò che aveva sempre interpretato come eccesso era stato, in realtà, una forma di resistenza. Che il bisogno di riempire la casa era il modo con cui lei aveva cercato di non essere svuotata di nuovo, non solo materialmente, ma spiritualmente.

La sua idea di ordine, di misura, di spazio condiviso — così ragionevole, così giusta — le era arrivata come una minaccia.

Partirono insieme.

L’isola che scelsero era essenziale: luce intensa, vegetazione compatta, il mare turchese che mutava colore con le ore del giorno. La casa era piccola. Poche cose. Nessun accumulo possibile. Ma questa volta nulla era imposto.

Ogni oggetto entrava perché necessario, o perché scelto.

Un tavolo per sedersi insieme.

Un telo per il riposo.

Una lampada per attraversare la notte.

Senza la necessità di difendere continuamente ciò che aveva, Clara cambiava. Il corpo si rilassava, il gesto diventava più fluido. La sua bellezza emergeva come qualcosa di naturale, non trattenuto né esibito. Una sensualità quieta, fatta di presenza, di pelle scalza sulla sabbia, di sguardi finalmente liberi.

Anche lui cambiava. Comprendere il passato di lei lo rendeva meno rigido, più capace di restare. Non aveva più bisogno di cercare equilibrio attraverso la sottrazione. Imparava a misurare senza ferire.

Una sera, davanti al mare, lei disse:

«Ora so che non ho bisogno di avere tutto.»

Lui rispose: «E io so che non tutto va tolto.»

Vivevano con poco.

Ma quel poco non era mai vuoto.

Ogni cosa aveva un valore proprio, e il valore più grande erano loro due: l’amore ricostruito dopo la mancanza, finalmente capace di unire misura e bisogno, presenza e limite.

Bagni di Lucca – The Circolo dei Forestieri, one of Bagni di Lucca’s most beloved historic restaurants, is reopening in early February 2026 under new management, bringing fresh energy to a venue steeped in history and elegance.

First built in the second half of the nineteenth century as a meeting place for tourists and the British colony seeking a lively summer alternative to Pisa and Florence, the Circolo has hosted a remarkable array of visitors over the centuries. Its large hall once echoed with parties, feasts, and ceremonies for guests who came to take the healing waters. Even a young Giacomo Puccini performed here, possibly sketching out tunes for La Bohème, and famously admonished tired dancers in 1880 with his exclamation: “Coraggio necciari!”—a playful nod to the chestnut-pancake makers (“necciari”) of the region.

In 1924, the Circolo was rebuilt in its present form. Its upper floor now hosts conferences and exhibitions, including the beloved Christmas presepi displays. The building’s Art Nouveau gates, rescued and restored after wartime removal, remain a striking feature. Until World War II, the first floor was also a gambling room frequented by notable figures such as Count Galeazzo Ciano and Edda Mussolini.

In 1979, the ground floor was transformed into a top-class restaurant, renowned for elegant dining, riverside terrace views, and signature touches like a sorbetto served between courses. Generations of visitors celebrated anniversaries, University of the Third Age events, and special occasions here, savoring home-style Tuscan cuisine in a uniquely charming atmosphere.

After the restaurant’s closure at the end of 2025, the town mourned the loss of this cultural and culinary landmark. Now, Giuliano Grub, 35, from Casoli and owner of the restaurant Da Marina, will take the helm, promising to honor tradition while welcoming new patrons. In the early days, he will be supported by former managers Stephania Crisalli in the kitchen and her daughter Rita Barsellotti in the dining room, ensuring continuity for longtime guests.
Grub, a graduate of the Barga hospitality institute, plans to serve weekday lunches and an evening à la carte menu, including pizza. “I look forward to welcoming everyone with open arms,” he said. With the reopening, Bagni di Lucca regains not only a restaurant but a hub of history, culture, and community gatherings—continuing a legacy that has charmed visitors for over a century.

Yesterday afternoon, the Town Hall Council Chamber of San Giuliano Terme hosted the presentation of ‘L’infanzia Rubata’ (‘Stolen Childhood’) the latest book by Piero Nissim, as part of the initiatives for the Day of Memory. The event, attended by the Mayor, members of the council, invited speakers, schoolchildren, and the public, was marked by thoughtful contributions, a short film, and moments of shared reflection.

‘Stolen Childhood’ gives voice to thousands of Italian children born between 1935 and 1940 whose childhoods were shaped—and often shattered—by the Second World War. Through testimonies and lived memories, the book explores physical hardship (bombings, displacement, hunger) and psychological trauma (fear, loss, and premature confrontation with death), asking how these children survived emotionally, whether they were able to attend school or play, and how such experiences shaped their adult lives. It is both a historical reconstruction and a deeply human narrative, reminding us that the theft of childhood is not confined to the past.

We have known Piero Nissim for many years. He is connected to an old family friend—an acquaintance of Sandra’s father—who, during the war, broadcast Allied radio programmes in Italian to civilians caught in the conflict. This personal connection adds further resonance to a book rooted in memory, resistance, and moral courage.

Piero Nissim is a remarkable and multifaceted artist: poet, writer, musician, songwriter, and theatre-maker. His work ranges from poetry and original songs to a distinctive form of puppet theatre—often described as “apron theatre”—in which characters emerge from a large apron worn by the performer. Together with his wife, and now through the work of his two daughters, who are continuing the family tradition in theatre and the dramatic arts, he has created a living, intergenerational artistic legacy in the hills near Pisa.

His personal and family history gives the book particular depth. Coming from a Jewish family, Nissim carries the memory of relatives who perished during the Holocaust and the great purges in Lithuania. At the same time, his father and uncle were directly involved in saving nearly one hundred Jewish people during the period of Italy’s racial laws—an example of courage and humanity that echoes strongly through his work.

The presentation of ‘Stolen Childhood’ was a powerful and moving contribution to the Day of Memory. The book itself is an intense and necessary read—one that restores dignity and voice to children whose stories were too long left untold, and that urges us to remain vigilant against the injustices that continue to affect children today.

Regarding the remarks made by an American president—remarks that have rightly been deemed offensive by so many world leaders—we must speak plainly.

More than 450 British servicemen and women lost their lives in Afghanistan. We must also remember (especially as we have part Italian heritage) the 53 Italian troops killed. Many more were grievously injured, and a significant number will require care and support for the rest of their lives. These are not abstractions or statistics: they are human beings who paid a terrible price.

We must remember those troops for who they were: heroes who served their country with courage, duty, and honour. They were asked to fight, to sacrifice, and ultimately to withdraw, leaving behind a nation that once again fell into the hands of forces of darkness. That alone was a bitter enough outcome.

What is utterly intolerable is that their service and sacrifice should now be demeaned or dismissed. Such insults do not wound only the present generation; they also dishonour the memory of our parents and grandparents, who fought—and often died—to defend freedom and democracy in the Western world. Their legacy, and that of those who followed them, deserves respect, not contempt.

As today is the day chosen to commemorate the Shoah and as only last September we had visited perhaps its most infamous death factory I am republishing something I wrote during our visit.

I had been to this horrendously iconic place of Man’s inhumanity to Man some twenty-five years ago, when I passed through these parts on my motorcycle. Memory had preserved it as a bleak landmark, but memory, I realised, is mercifully selective. Yesterday it rose again in its full, brutal scale. It was the first time Sandra had seen it, and I was deeply grateful to her for coming. This is not a place one visits lightly. It is vast, exposed, and physically demanding, requiring almost four hours of steady walking—four hours during which the body tires, while the mind is steadily worn down by what it is forced to confront.
The sheer size of the site is itself part of the message. This was not a momentary lapse, not a sudden eruption of violence, but an industrial, bureaucratic enterprise sustained over years. Brick by brick, rail by rail, it was planned, staffed, supplied, and maintained. Evil here was not chaotic; it was organised.

Our guide was excellent—measured, factual, and scrupulously free of overt bias. That restraint made the visit all the more powerful. There was no need for rhetoric, no need for moralising flourishes. The facts alone, calmly laid out, were devastating. Dates, numbers, procedures, routines—each detail quietly reinforced the reality that this was a system designed to erase people methodically, efficiently, and without remorse.

Yet for all the explanations, I left with questions that remain disturbingly unresolved.
How could a nation whose own identity was forged through centuries of hardship, humiliation, and suffering come to inflict such calculated cruelty on others? How does collective memory of pain fail so completely to produce collective empathy? At what point does grievance curdle into justification, and justification into atrocity?
And how could another nation—fully aware, after Stalingrad, that the war was strategically lost—still find the resources, the energy, and the administrative will to pursue a project whose sole aim was annihilation? Trains diverted, manpower reassigned, materials rationed elsewhere—all in service of cancelling an entire people and reducing others to permanent servitude. Even measured in the cold logic of war, it was irrational. Measured morally, it was madness on a cosmic scale.

What was destroyed here was not only millions of lives, but something more fundamental: the very idea of humanity as a shared condition. To design such a place, to operate it daily, to normalise its routines, required the systematic dismantling of conscience itself. This was not merely the murder of people; it was the deliberate destruction of the right to be called human—by victims and perpetrators alike.

Walking away, one is left with the unsettling knowledge that this road was built by ordinary hands, justified by ordinary language, and travelled step by step. And that, perhaps, is the most chilling lesson of all.

I remember Minneapolis from my one and only visit in 1970 as a strikingly attractive city, with a strong Scandinavian vibe—very Swedish, even Finnish—and dotted with beautiful sculptures, including Calder mobiles. Back then, the city felt calm, cultured, and uniquely American in a way that echoed Northern Europe.

(The last two photos show the iconic Nicollet Mall Sculpture Clock (also known as the “Mall Clock”) in Minneapolis, Minnesota).

Fast forward to today, and it’s hard to reconcile that same city with the shocking scenes unfolding now. Federal ICE and Border Patrol agents are operating in Minneapolis like stormtroopers, targeting people labeled as “illegal immigrants” with lethal force. Just this month, two lives were lost—Renée Good and Alex Pretti—both fatally shot in controversial operations that have left the city reeling. Witnesses, video evidence, and official statements clash, but the fear and outrage are very real.

The parallels with history are striking. Watching people singled out, stalked, and killed echoes dark memories of persecution in Europe, where authorities once hunted people simply for who they were. While the context is different, the human horror feels disturbingly similar.

Minneapolis isn’t just a place on the map—it’s a community, a cultural hub, a city remembered for beauty and art. And now it’s facing a crisis that challenges our sense of justice and humanity. The governor, local leaders, and ordinary citizens are protesting, asking for accountability and for federal agents to step back. Public outrage is mounting, from protests in the streets to condemnation from sports stars and public figures alike.

This isn’t just a local problem—it’s a mirror reflecting how power can be abused and how fragile our liberties can be. Minneapolis deserves better, and so do the people it’s now putting at risk.

A couple of days ago a young lad was killed in La Spezia, Italy. …killed in his school classroom….
In the avalanche of reporting on the killing at a school in La Spezia, one fact is treated like an embarrassment: the victim was a Coptic Christian.
Youssef Abanoub Safwat Roushdi Zaki, 18, is carefully described as having “Egyptian origins,” “dual citizenship,” or being a “foreign student.” Every formulation is acceptable—except the truthful one. He was Christian. He was Coptic. He belonged to the most ancient and most persecuted Christian minority in the Middle East.
This omission is not accidental. It is ideological.
The fear is always the same: naming religious identity might “offend,” “polarise,” or “fuel stereotypes.” This fear is particularly great in the UK as several recent cases have proved. The truth is trimmed away, and the murder is flattened into a harmless narrative: a jealous quarrel between classmates, allegedly triggered by Instagram photos. A killing without context. A victim without identity.
But Youssef was not anonymous.
He was a deacon in the Coptic Orthodox Churches of La Spezia, known to everyone as “Aba.” He served at the altar, sang ancient hymns, and lived his faith openly. His family had fled Egypt to escape systematic persecution: churches burned, Christians attacked, women harassed, false blasphemy charges used as weapons. They came to Italy seeking safety and freedom of worship
Youssef found neither. He was killed in a classroom at the Einaudi-Chiodo Institute, his throat cut, a knife plunged into his chest.
“We fled Egypt because the churches were burning,” his uncle said. “Today we are mourning because of violence again.” The family arrived in Italy between 2011 and 2014, at the height of Islamist attacks on Coptic communities.
At the funeral in the Cathedral of Christ the King, reality could no longer be edited out. Coptic liturgy, prayers in Coptic and Arabic, incense, chanting, a white coffin covered in flowers. Thousands attended. A minute of silence was observed in Italian schools.
A persecuted Christianity had followed this family across borders—and was killed again.
The attacker, Zouhair Atif, 19, of Moroccan origin, admitted to pulling a knife from his trousers and striking. His explanation was disarmingly simple: revenge over photos involving a girl. Jealousy. End of story.
Except it isn’t.
Religious and cultural hatreds do not dissolve at passport control. The Christian-Muslim fractures that scar the Middle East can survive as inherited resentment, as background hostility, as moral permission to hate. Pretending otherwise, in the name of not “generalising,” is not wisdom—it is wilful blindness.
Egypt ranks among the worst countries in the world for Christian persecution. This is documented fact. Radical Islamist fringes—distinct from ordinary, peaceful Muslims—explicitly identify Christians as infidels and legitimate targets. To ignore this context when it appears on European soil is intellectual cowardice.
Italy today has over five million immigrants. Roughly ten per cent of students are foreign nationals. Reports of ethno-religious bullying are increasing. Youssef’s funeral was not only an act of mourning; it was a warning. Conflicts imported without scrutiny do not remain theoretical.
Integration is not a slogan and not a sentiment. It means enforcing the law, protecting minorities, and making clear that religious violence and sectarian revenge have no place here. Christians—Coptic or otherwise—must be able to live openly, without knives, without fear, without euphemisms masking reality.
If we keep diluting facts to protect a narrative, the next victim will once again be sanitised, relabelled, and quietly erased.
Political correctness will not prevent violence.
It will only make sure we never name it.

(My recent assignment for the creative writing course held at Ponte a Serraglio, translated into English)

Franco walked along the river, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat, his mind humming with relentless noise. Thoughts collided—half-formed sentences, memories surfacing unbidden. The water flowed slow and steady, indifferent to the storm inside him.
Occasionally he stopped, leaned over, and watched his reflection tremble on the ripples. A face he barely recognized, distorted, foreign.
This is not me anymore.
“They erased you, didn’t they?”
The voice came from within—Marco’s voice, precise and unmistakable.
Marco. Just the name twisted his stomach, like a sudden hand pressing inward.
It had begun quietly: whispers, insinuations, veiled accusations. He’s unreliable. Better not give him important tasks. Polite smiles in corridors, hollow as air. Then the letter arrived, cold and impersonal: Collaboration terminated due to loss of trust.
In a few lines, his life unspooled.
Debts followed, uninvited. His girlfriend’s patience frayed.
“We can’t afford this. No holidays this year.. The car will have to wait.”
Eventually she left him for someone younger, someone who drove a blue Alfa and never had to count sacrifices.
Franco withdrew from life. He stopped visiting his favorite restaurant; the waiters asked, curiosity barely hidden:
“Where’s your girl?”
He hunted for bargains in discount supermarkets. His clothes frayed quietly—first the hems, then the elbows, tiny holes opening like signs of surrender.
When he confronted Marco, the man smiled the way one smiles at a child who hasn’t yet grasped how the world works.
“Don’t make it so tragic,” Marco said. “These things happen.”
“Happen to whom?” Franco replied. “To me—or to those who climb over others?”
Marco shrugged.
“I’m still here. You’re not.”
The words lodged in Franco’s mind like nails that refused to come loose.
In the days that followed, amid a silent, seething storm, Franco began to plot. His anger transformed: no longer blind, but precise, deliberate, cold.
At night he sat at the table, notebook open and wrote:
Marco’s schedule.
Places he frequents.
People he sees.
“If I do this right,” he murmured, “no one will ever know it was me.”
He paused, reread the lines, and felt a thin chill slice through his chest.
Who am I becoming?
One evening he saw Marco in a bar, laughing, animated, untouchable.
“Franco!” Marco called. “Come have a drink.”
Inside, the air smelled of cocktails, wine, hurried tastings.
“So?” Marco asked. “Recovered?”
“You seem to be thriving,” Franco said.
“One must adapt. Those who fall behind… stay behind.”
Franco stared at him.
“And if one day it were you who fell behind?”
Marco laughed.
“Me? Impossible.”
That laugh sounded like a crooked promise.
The plan sharpened daily, yet the more it took shape, the emptier Franco felt. Sleep eluded him. He woke drenched in fragments of dreams.
Seeking calm, he turned to ancient texts, distant religions. He discovered Hinduism, the writings of its sages. In one volume he read of karma: every action, every word, every intention leaves a trace.
Not revenge. Balance.
If this is true, he thought, then Marco is writing his own downfall with his own hands.
And the world began to move.
A whisper: Marco’s having money troubles.
A newspaper article: alleged theft.
An investigation.
A divorce—explosive, after twenty years of marriage.
Franco read in silence, seated on his bed.
“I didn’t do this,” he whispered. “Yet it feels like my dream walking on its own.”
Weeks passed. Marco fell, piece by piece. His job vanished in a sudden bankruptcy. Friends disappeared. The certainty that had protected him collapsed. He drank cheap red wine now, no longer fine bottles.
Franco saw him once, on a muddy street. Bent. Disheveled. Unshaven.
“Franco,” Marco said. “I… I never thought that—”
“That what?” Franco asked.
“That it would all come back around.”
Franco looked at him. There was no anger left—only calm.
“According to karma,” he said slowly, “no action exists without reaction. No gesture without return. Not to punish. To restore balance.”
Marco lowered his head.
“If I could go back…”
“You can’t go back,” Franco said. “You move forward, carrying what you’ve sown.”
Marco walked away.
Franco lingered. He thought of the plan never used, the nights spent imagining an ending that was never truly his.
My victory was never his fall, he realized. It was my return.
He took modest work. Unremarkable. But he breathed more easily. Lighter, as though he had stopped fighting a current larger than himself.
One evening, at night school, while learning English, he met the woman who would change his life.
Then he understood: karma needs no human hand, no thirst for revenge. It restores. It places each thing back where it belongs. Every gesture, every word, every intention follows its invisible course until it returns as truth.
There is no rush. No clamor. Only balance, quietly reassembling itself.
That winter evening, the sky wrapped in the calm glow of sunset, Franco walked hand in hand with the woman he loved. The struggle ceased. A current larger than himself carried him.
He turned, kissed her gently, and met the depth of her eyes.
What grace, he thought, to have found the way back.
And he understood at last: rebirth is not a conquest, but a surrender—to the secret order of things.

Watching them together—rubbing heads, licking each other’s faces, lying with their paws almost entwined—made it impossible to think of them simply as “exhibits.” For a moment, they were just two living creatures sharing a bond, even if that bond was unfolding in a space designed by humans.

We wandered on slowly, in no rush at all. One of the nicest things about that day was the quiet: no school groups, no shouting children, no crowds pressing against the railings – not like the first time we’d visited the zoo. well over ten years ago! The animals seemed to appreciate it, too. Some were basking in the cool winter sun; others moved lazily, as if they were soaking up the peace as much as we were.

As often happens in zoos, I found myself reflecting on contradictions. On the one hand, it still troubles me that wild animals are kept in enclosures, no matter how large or thoughtfully designed. No fence or artificial landscape can truly replace a savannah, a jungle, or a mountain range. On the other hand, zoos like Pistoia—or Berlin, for that matter—clearly make an effort: space, stimulation, and dignity are priorities. They also teach visitors, especially children, to care about animals they might otherwise know only from cartoons or books.

The rest of the visit flowed in the same gentle, unhurried way. We lingered by the Asian otters, which were endlessly entertaining—slipping into the water, popping back up, rolling and tumbling as if play itself were their main occupation. There was something joyful about watching them, a kind of lightness that made you smile without even realising you were doing it.

The alligators, by contrast, exuded calm, frightening power. Still and statuesque, they seemed like living fossils—until one shifted, opening an eye or flicking its tail, a reminder of the strength and alertness lurking beneath their motionless exterior. The reptile house was a brief step into another world: snakes, lizards, and strange, beautiful creatures I’d only seen in books or on TV. The branch filled with leeches that could easily be touched made me glad I was living in an age which no longer used them for medicinal purposes.

The giraffes were elegant and serene, their long necks reaching for leaves with an almost dreamlike grace. Watching them chew thoughtfully, we fell silent, caught up in their calm.

Other animals we loved watching included meerkats, capibara, the largest rodents in the world (their size frightened us), wallabies, giant tortoises like the ones we saw in Mauritius in 2024, mongoose, parrots, cassowaries, emus, penguins, peacocks which included beautiful albino ones. monkeys, pelicans, bears and wolves (who are some of our neighbours where we live).

But the star I’d been hoping to see was the red panda. Enchanting—part bear, part cat, part something else entirely—it moved quietly among the trees, half-hidden by branches and leaves. Following it required patience, and when I finally caught a good glimpse, I felt a little thrill, like I’d discovered a secret. And it took me back to the ones I’d seen in China.

Yet even in that joy, a pang of concern: it seemed alone. I didn’t spot another red panda nearby, and that thought tugged at me, a quiet ache amid the delight. Zoos can make you feel joy and sadness in the same heartbeat.

The tickets were slightly more expensive than Berlin Zoo which we’d visited last year, and which is much bigger, but nothing close to the ghastly entry fees of Edinburgh or London. Considering what you get, it’s a bargain—and that made enjoying the day even easier

Pistoia Zoo did give me mixed feelings, but gentler ones than I expected. I didn’t feel the shock and sadness I remember from childhood trips to Milan Zoo (now closed), where I stared at bears and lions in tiny cages. Instead, I felt cautious acceptance: a recognition that zoos are imperfect, but some are genuinely trying to do better. Perhaps that’s where I stand now—not someone who can celebrate them without doubts, but someone who can enjoy moments like that afternoon, watching two lions in the sun, while remembering their real home lies far beyond any fence.. So. on the whole we left Pistoia Zoo with warm, favourable impressions for it had given us curiosity, pleasure, and real moments of emotion.

Preface

This is the piece I presented for the theme of sacred and profane love in my creative writing course. It is a novella interwoven with sonnets, in which spiritual devotion and human desire are not opposed, but two movements of the same flame. The story explores how the sacred can inhabit the body and the profane can be a path to grace.The English translation follows the Italian original.

Oltre il velo e le montagne

Novella – Testo originale

Agnese era entrata in convento giovane, con una sensibilità che sembrava eccedere il mondo. Nulla in lei cercava la fuga: ciò che la spingeva al silenzio era l’intensità con cui ogni cosa la raggiungeva. Il canto, la luce, i gesti minimi delle altre religiose le toccavano il cuore come mani troppo vicine.

Per anni credette che ciò che la spaventava fosse il desiderio. Le avevano insegnato a riconoscerlo come una fessura pericolosa, una debolezza da murare con la preghiera. Solo più tardi comprese l’errore: non era il desiderare a intimidirla, ma l’essere desiderata. Essere vista, scelta, amata come corpo vivo e non soltanto come vocazione.

La rivelazione avvenne una sera di vespro. Il chiostro era immerso in una luce viola e stanca, e Agnese sentì con chiarezza che l’amore che provava per Dio non diminuiva quando il corpo si faceva presente. Al contrario, si rendeva più vero. L’amore spirituale e quello profano non erano opposti: erano due lati della stessa fiamma, una che sale e una che scende.

Quella notte scrisse.

Scriveva in inglese, lingua che il convento non possedeva davvero, e quindi non poteva sorvegliare. Scriveva come si prega quando le parole liturgiche non bastano più. Il primo sonetto nacque come un atto di fedeltà, non di ribellione.

Sonetto I

Nel vespro chiuso io volto il dorso al mondo,
al suo mentire crudo e disperato;
l’amore cieco scaccio, e più profondo
seguo il Signore, unico chiamato.
Alla Messa consacro il desiderio,
al primo lume il rosario mi lega;
altri sprofondino in voragini d’empio,
Cristo soltanto il vuoto mio dislega.
Mio sposo, il corpo mio sia tuo soltanto,
la Grazia sfiori il seno che si desta;
la tua mano mi guidi al regno santo,
senza il tuo tocco il cuore mio protesta.
Così ogni notte a te l’anima affido:
sei l’unico vero, eterno mio nido.

Nascose il foglio tra le pagine di un salterio. Credeva di aver affidato quelle parole solo a Dio.

Andrea arrivò al convento come seminarista alcuni mesi dopo, incaricato di riordinare la biblioteca. Aveva uno sguardo attento e una voce pacata, come chi ha imparato ad ascoltare prima di parlare. Un pomeriggio, un foglio scivolò da un volume antico. Lo raccolse. Lesse.

Non provò scandalo. Provò riconoscimento. Quelle parole dicevano ciò che aveva sempre intuito e mai osato formulare: che Dio non teme il corpo, che l’amore non si corrompe incarnandosi.

Nei giorni successivi trovò altri sonetti. Li leggeva lentamente, come si leggono le confessioni più vere. Uno, in particolare, lo turbò profondamente.

Sonetto II

Devi esser duro per sapermi amare:
porto sul petto spine di dolore;
sotto l’abito mordono, incessare
non sanno, segno vivo del mio errore.
Il tuo sangue segna pelle penitente
e mostra al cuore puro la sua via;
il ferro punge, memoria permanente
dei chiodi e della tua agonia.
Vergine sangue, a te solo versato,
questo è il dono che il cuore ti consegna;
vieni, rapiscimi, sii invocato,
poi placa il fuoco in pace che mi regna.
Non v’è letizia senza fiamma ardente,
né pace senza pena che consente.

Quando finalmente parlarono, non ci fu imbarazzo. Solo una calma intensa, come se entrambi sapessero di trovarsi davanti a una verità già matura. Andrea confessò di aver letto i versi. Agnese non si difese.
«Amare non è mai un peccato», disse con semplicità.
«Il peccato è mentire a ciò che siamo. Vale tanto un bacio quanto una novena, se sono veri. Se baciamo le reliquie dei santi, perché non dovremmo baciare persone come noi, vive e sensibili?»

Da quel momento, ogni incontro fu carico di una dolcezza trattenuta. Gli sguardi si cercavano, le mani si sfioravano come per errore. Agnese continuava a scrivere; Andrea continuava a leggere. I sonetti divennero il luogo in cui il loro amore poteva esistere prima di farsi gesto.

Una notte, Agnese lasciò un foglio sul tavolo, senza nasconderlo. Andrea lo lesse mentre lei era ancora nella stanza.

Sonetto III

Signore, mi piego alla tua luce viva,
peccatrice misera, prendimi intera;
stringi il mio cuore, l’ombra che deriva,
amore supremo, sciogli la mia sera.
Profumerò per te la carne afflitta,
per te soltanto mormorerò salmi;
sciogli il cilicio, leva la veste fitta,
disfa i miei nodi, placa i miei allarmi.
Senti il cuore del corpo, accarezza il seno,
prendimi tutta: solo allora salva;
dimentica la terra e l’uomo terreno.
Guarda: son qui, le labbra aperte a te;
assaggia il rugiado, resta fedele a me.

Non si toccarono quella notte. Ma decisero.
Fuggirono prima dell’alba. Attraversarono le montagne in silenzio, con poche cose e molti pensieri lasciati indietro. Dall’altra parte trovarono una terra semplice, una casa di pietra, il lavoro delle mani. Lì impararono un amore quotidiano, lento, senza paura.

L’ultimo sonetto Agnese lo scrisse anni dopo, quando l’amore non era più attesa ma presenza. Andrea lo lesse accanto a lei.

Sonetto IV

Io sono ancella tua, gioia e splendore,
il corpo mio è tuo: rendilo vero;
gli occhi per la gloria del tuo ardore,
l’odor per il profumo santo e fiero.
Le labbra a baciare il tuo dir d’amore,
i seni a nutrirti di lode e zelo,
le orecchie ai cori angelici in fiore,
il cuore a te dono, e sia tuo velo.
Le gambe s’avvincono come rampolli,
le cosce aprono via alla tua forza,
il bosco segreto dà frutti che accogli,
il grembo sostiene l’adorar che incalza.
Qual altro amante potrei mai bramar?
Davanti a Te, tutti non sanno amar.

Nulla era andato perduto.
La fede non si era spenta. Si era incarnata.

,***

Beyond the Veil and the Mountains

English Translation

Agnes had entered the convent young, with a sensitivity that seemed to exceed the world. Nothing in her sought escape: what drew her to silence was the intensity with which everything reached her. Song, light, the smallest gestures of the other nuns touched her heart like hands too near.

For years she believed that what frightened her was desire. They had taught her to see it as a dangerous crack, a weakness to be walled up with prayer. Only later did she understand the mistake: it was not desiring that intimidated her, but being desired. Being seen, chosen, loved as a living body and not only as a vocation.

The revelation came one evening at vespers. The cloister lay in a tired violet light, and Agnes felt clearly that the love she bore for God did not lessen when the body made itself present. On the contrary, it became more true. Spiritual love and profane love were not opposites: they were two sides of the same flame, one that rises and one that descends.

That night she wrote.

She wrote in English, a language the convent did not truly possess and therefore could not watch. She wrote as one prays when liturgical words are no longer enough. The first sonnet was born as an act of fidelity, not of rebellion.

Sonnet I

Dusk-veiled and cloistered here I turn my back
upon a cruel world. Deluding love
cast out, I follow Saviour’s track,
God’s universe and Jordan’s holy dove.
For midnight trysts I keep the sacred Mass
and morning’s light is rosary’s yew beads.
Let others lust and fall down sin’s crevasse
for only Christ now satisfies my needs.
My spouse, my body is for you alone,
your Grace caresses my young swelling breasts,
your hand in mine will lead me to your throne,
without your golden touch my heart protests.
And so each night I bare my soul for you,
the one and only who’ll be always true.

She hid the sheet among the pages of a psalter. She believed she had entrusted those words only to God.
Andrea arrived at the convent as a seminarian some months later, charged with ordering the library. He had an attentive gaze and a quiet voice, like one who has learned to listen before speaking. One afternoon a sheet slipped from an ancient volume. He picked it up. He read.

He felt no scandal. He felt recognition. Those words said what he had always sensed and never dared to shape: that God does not fear the body, that love is not corrupted by becoming flesh.

In the days that followed he found other sonnets. He read them slowly, as one reads the truest confessions. One, in particular, shook him deeply.

Sonnet II

He must be cruel to be kind and so
I wear a cross of thorns upon my breast;
beneath this habit spines claw deep and slow
into my flesh for I have still transgressed.
And Saviour’s blood stains penitential skin
and shows redeeming path to his pure heart;
the iron sting recalls those nails within,
for Christ’s sake let me ever bleed and smart.
It’s virgin’s blood and shed for you alone,
this gift is all my heart for you to keep.
Come, ravish me and hear my burning moan,
then soothe me still with your eternal sleep
No joy without love’s lambent flame that heals,
no rest without the torment that reveals.

When at last they spoke, there was no embarrassment. Only an intense calm, as if both knew they stood before a truth already ripe. Andrea confessed he had read the verses. Agnes did not defend herself.
“To love is never a sin,” she said simply.
“The sin is to lie to what we are. A kiss is worth as much as a novena, if both are true. If we kiss the relics of saints, why should we not kiss people like us, living and sensitive?”

From that moment, every meeting was heavy with a restrained sweetness. Their eyes sought each other, their hands brushed as if by mistake. Agnes went on writing; Andrea went on reading. The sonnets became the place where their love could exist before becoming a gesture.

One night Agnes left a sheet on the table, without hiding it. Andrea read it while she was still in the room.

Sonnet III

My Lord, I bend myself before your light:
a wretched sinner, take me as I am
and hold me fast, possess my heart tonight
entirely: love supreme, destroy life’s sham.
I shall perfume this penanced flesh for you,
for you alone recite soft psalms of praise.
Exclude this cloak, my ciliac undo,
take off the darkening veil, unloose my stays
and feel this body’s heart, caress this breast
of favour, take me in entirety;
for solely then shall I be truly blessed,
forget this earth and man’s impiety.
Look, here I lie, my lips apart for you:
come, taste their dew and be for ever true.

They did not touch that night. But they decided.

They fled before dawn. They crossed the mountains in silence, with few things and many thoughts left behind. On the other side they found a simple land, a stone house, the work of hands. There they learned a daily love, slow, without fear.

The last sonnet Agnes wrote years later, when love was no longer waiting but presence. Andrea read it beside her.

Sonnet IV

I am your Lord’s handmaiden, your delight,
my body’s all for you, so set it free:
my eyes to see the glory of your sight,
my nose to scent perfume of sanctity,
my lips to kiss your words of sacred love,
my breasts to feed you with delicious praise,
my ears to hear your angel choirs above,
my heart to give to you to keep always,
my legs to twine with yours like milk-weed shoots,
my thighs to part a way for godly strength,
my secret grove to squeeze delicious fruits,
my womb to bear your adoration’s length.
What other lover could I want or lack?
Before your Majesty they are just slack.

Nothing had been lost.
Faith had not gone out. It had become flesh.

***

Illustration of Theme

To visually capture the interplay of sacred and profane love in the story, Titian’s masterpiece Sacred and Profane Love (1514)_ provides a fitting counterpart. The painting depicts two female figures—one clothed, representing sacred love, and one nude, representing profane love—sitting side by side in a lush landscape. The duality mirrors Agnes’ experience: the divine and the earthly are not in opposition, but exist together, intertwined, as two expressions of the same human and spiritual longing.

In the novella, Agnes’ spiritual devotion does not diminish her human desire; rather, both flame together, illuminating the truth that the body and soul can coexist in love without contradiction. Just as Titian places the two figures in the same harmonious setting, the story places sacred and profane love within the same heart, rising and descending together.
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