Category: Music

Folletto dei Boschi (Woodland Elf)

The lilt of dawn streaming through a gentle copse, all sylvan and splendor as twilight finds its restful place. He is the peeper of spring, the aromatic mist of minestrone and the pine needles of the woodland path. His lyrical tenor is of the elusive wood thrush dwelling deep in the forest, the last wandering bird to arrive and herald the rise of spring.

Ignazio, a cheery brown eyed faun: folletto dei boschi. How nimble you are of word with such a funny bone that shows us how to forget our cares if only for a while. You are a river otter, clever and sleek, playfully tickling giggles from Piero. Gianluca says with a smile you are plum crazy.

How you made me to feel so welcome with your gentle smile. How much there is to admire. The brother who tempers the trio. Il padrino! All our respect. Yet when you sing bittersweet tales of the almost vanished memory of happiness and cry the mighty Caruso’s lament how can I not find tears in my eyes. Where does it come from? You are all delight my woodland sprite. Il mio biscottino born in the moon of gathering grapes.

Ignazio Boschetto’s whose name translates to fiery woodland. Chi è Ignazio? Folletto dei boschi, a magical elf.

Ernest Thompson Seton: “…the joyful, keen and fearless otter; mild and loving to his own kind, and gentle with his neighbour of the stream; full of play and gladness in his life, full of courage in his stress; ideal in his home, steadfast in death; the noblest little soul that ever went four-footed through the woods.”

On A Carousel (Sulla Giostra)

Sometimes you are a sunset tender. Sometimes your eyes reflect the sea light of chestnut and jade. Sometimes you are the golden eagle with the wild in his eyes; all fire and passion in the gardens of Aranjuez. Qualche volta, GianRomeo, sei un briccone! Qualche volta ti vedo la gioia e il dolore di fama. Sometimes you feel like a long-lost friend. And, sometimes an embrace of someone who passed this way.

We simply adore you. In that way you share your dreams, hopes, wants, aches and the wonders of travels with so many thousands curious to know just for a moment of you. Didn’t I hear someone say, that when I saw Gianluca, I had him close once more, I touched your hair, there was an echo. I wonder if he haunts me still. Not again will I hold my dearest near to me. But, for a moment, I could dream he was no longer my shadow.

But, you have bewitched me. I feel your warmth in the mystique of your voice, sensual and purring the ear in a romantic baritone. You were the friend, the brother, the son I could have known. Every time I thought I lost the dream, I heard you and became as I was. I was whole, I was content, and I was sunrise.

Gianluca born under the sunrise of a snow moon in the wee town of Montepagano. D’Abruzzo, the blue of the sea, the white of the snow peaked mountains and the green of the fertile foothills in between. So far from home, that old place of mulberry and olive groves reaching to the sea. Now you ride a carousel, sometimes I am in that dream with thee.

Baronissimo: Live Free Be Free (Vive Libera Sii Libera)

Piero is a kettle of popping corn brimming over delicious with butter and a sprinkle of cayenne. Alla salute!

Piero is the pop of the champagne cork, a double dip of spicy mustard, and the apple of Maria Grazia’s eye. Mia carissima sorellina!

Piero is silky and mysterious, born under a crescent strawberry moon. A Thursday’s child and still has far to go. He is all handsome with hair raven’s wing black. So quick with a wink and whistle to the parade of ingénue. Che un civettuolo!

Piero of stage is air guitar and drum, rowdy and ready to dazzle. He is all fluff and fuss. All gentle and sweet with i bambini.

But all that nimble and quick becomes somber and brilliant in song. He is all honey and heart. A dolphin wheeling a wave the sea: Vive libera; Sii libera

The Piero of song is at once tenderness, blessedness and poise. His voice swells as the choral of a great song bird soaring up the canyon filling the walls well enough to reach the Aeolian Islands off the shores of his beloved Sicily. He is the zephyr wind, the messenger from another age, the beauty of the Great Song born from the dust where the goddess once did play. Don’t they pause when they hear him ring out Non Puede Ser.

He is old; he is new. He is love. He is true. Adoro te! Il mio piccioncino!