Yesterday morning, very early, I crossed paths with one of them, just with a glance, who comes from the town of such-and-such. Usually, he greets me cheerfully, but yesterday he did not; he hastily opened and closed the car boot, ready to roar off toward the city house. I continued on my way, a little stunned, but then I thought no more of it—until, shortly after, another of them, who comes from Northern Italy and has a friend staying with her, went for a quick dip in the unnaturally hot waters of these days (I must stress, unnaturally hot) and lost her husband and son in rapid succession: one to one of those dreadful illnesses, the other because he fell from an easy path, so his friends say, on a green island.

I returned home slowly, as if weighed down by a burden, and sat down to look at a certain website where so many, far too many deaths from sudden illness (the new, mysterious ailment whose cause no one wishes to see) from turbo cancer, or from car accidents caused, once again, by sudden illness, are listed. And I believe I have discovered why the acquaintance was heading back, dejected, to his mourning town for the funeral of a twenty-three-year-old whose obsequies were celebrated just yesterday. Yes, I told myself, it has been far too long since I spoke of the daily slaughter silenced by the media, all of them busy telling us about Ranucci, Lavitola, and their ilk, singing (about which we could not care less) and doing whatever they please, hurling bombs at one another to play the victims of the world…).

Every day that the Lord sends upon this earth now gripped in the pincers of Satan and his hideous lies, at the mercy of so many little devils, the deaths of which I speak are beyond counting—and all of them young, sometimes very young. And woe betide anyone who dares speak the truth; all are quick to blame cruel fate and, if anything, the Lord, who has nothing to do with it! If men and women, young and very young, have done the will of Speranza (without Hope)—and not that of God who created them healthy and strong—who urged us to keep silent about the modest scale of the psychopandemic because we had to frighten the vaccinators (those about to die) to death, who, after the pique, might also have killed those like myself who refused the vaccine containing fragments of murdered children.

Who can forget the insults, the deprivations, the excesses of journalists, politicians, actors, and singers! But what does it matter? I only wished to please the Lord, who had warned me about the vaccine, and in vain I wrote, I spoke, I shouted. And now? Now, powerless, awakened at night by the Lord, my heart in turmoil, I must witness the lying silence that, with its contian Latinorum, covers the gravest faults of the—so to speak—then-governors: the useless masks, the wheeled desks, the farcical lockdowns, the plexiglass on the beaches, the gene serum designed—Hell Gates, those gates of hell, says so openly—to mow down the population…

And there is nothing to be done; a rancorous silence blankets everything, and the ‘what-about-ism’ reigns when we return to speak of those years that changed the world and daily life. Yes, because in the divide et impera between vax and no vax, seasoned with other delicacies already served and revered (the disappearance of church bells and kneelers), Catholicism transformed into an NGO, a carnal world entirely consumed by the here and now, which glares (yes, yes, with dogs on leashes) at those who pray, the Creation of God has been replaced by Lucifer’s wizzi wazzo, and when contradictions emerge (and how many, how many, how many!), then silence descends like an axe, and onward, relentless, beneath the deadly rainbow. I weep, I pray. Alone.