The red shirts of Garibaldi marked the birth of Italy, the agenda of red Borsellino marked the end of Italy. I was 3 years old in 1992, did not understand and did not know anything about what happened, I have memories of this "tragedy." We tragedies like the Italians, we like to praise the dead and regret, we like a little less fight alongside the living, I know, I've learned. The words of the son of Borsellino I freeze the blood, even the words of Emilio Fede. Same effect. The deep respect for a state that has taken away all by Manfredi Borsellino and the profound contempt for a man who gave everything to the State, all in real sense of the word after the life you can not give anything by Emilio Fede, this drives me crazy Italian Schizophrenia. Thinking about the Italian situation I can think of a single image, "the oil slick that has poured into America. The oil spill has spread to the whole ocean suddenly, everyone ran for cover, trying to save all the salvageable but it was too late, the oil has coated everything and can not be cleaned, we try but you can not. You try to plug the leak, but this does not work. The Mafia is like a drill rig that the state, we do not realize it because there are drilling away from our eyes, the only time we notice something is when it it's too late. Falcone and Borsellino were killed as the fish, due to a "thing" covered with black and made them unrecognizable. We tell ourselves that sacrificed themselves for the state and who left us an important lesson, and it's all true in theory, but we have not learned the lesson and the state has sacrificed like lambs to God is a red vendicativo.Il color that is part of our country, passion red, red wine, red sauce and red blood, the blood poured out for Italy. Dear Faith Agenda Wallet Red is not red communist red blood, in the words of his sangue.Chiudo Manfredi Borsellino that most struck me.
I saw my father, or rather its "ruins" because when I came in via D'Amelio was recognized by the then President of the Court of Appeals, Dr. Carmelo Conti, who wanted to take me to the Centre of Forensic Medicine, where shortly after I was joined by my mother and my paternal grandmother. I learned later that my sister Lucy not only wanted to see what was left of my father, but he also wanted to reconcile and dress in the morgue. My sister Lucy, the same as a few hours after the death of his father would have supported a university exam in disbelief leaving the commission, told us that our father is dead, smiling under his mustache, smoked from the soot of the explosion has glimpsed his usual grin, his smile ever,
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