Works

The title chosen by Salvadò Scotto says much about his own singular way of being. Andendu Videndu — “walking, seeing” — here you are on the way, without detour: I walk and I see.

And it is known that the shepherd travels with his flock and watches over the road. He lives to the rhythm of the slopes, with his animals pulling that thread of grass from the scrub, that ridge hanging above the hillside.

And when midday comes, the animals graze, then lie down and chew, while the shepherd weaves the dark thread of imagination.

Then the images appear, the verse, the rhymes, gently. They come like a procession of remembered things. Over there an old castle, a church with its pointed bell tower, the oven where the women knead the bread, the haystack where the homeless man sleeps, the fountain of fresh clear water, the children running here and there.

Those light sounds, or those that echo, calling up memories of long ago, of dense maquis in flower. Salvadò listened to them, and the muses listened to him.

Poetry is song, soul, thought. Of nature, of the earth, the sky, the water, of daily life with its people and friends, from the mountain to the plain.

The verse is the beautiful, the true mirror of the poet who chooses among the many riches handed down by the old culture, together with the newness of passing time.

He goes to see where to go. And he sings among the others; friend, you are there, and so am I. Salvadò speaks poetry, he sings it.

So, reading these paghjelles, or better still singing them out loud, share the joy through shared friendship.