Finis Terrae The winter season is advancing regardless heralded cold and ruthless. The old knew that there was not enough to fire all those who had been caught by surprise by Galaverna not have stood a chance. Actually, they also knew how groped extreme defense, and quickly flesh out the good stocks of wood, many sleeping in each other's arms in a bed, tucking in doors and windows because they better withstand the roar of ice and Wind ... were hopelessly tired, benighted, hopeless, and had no desire to teach. sdimenticano learned and too much of a lifetime ... He peered around sullen and suspicious. Inexorable snarled that there was nothing to be done, nothing was worth deceive ourselves: someone that winter - as always - was to die. "It 's painful," they said, "a terrible misfortune, but not everyone can escape the cruelty of winter ...". Mind of innocence. And in their hearts they hoped to make it, not to be the easiest targets of destiny. Young people do not understand, sketch, fumbling, stumbling along. Tired laughing, cursing, rubbing his hands, he was blowing in, played, laughed, stamped their feet in time, confident in the raga of a thaw. Mind of innocence. Cursed because shy of the old wood and claimed for them, but they did not know how to get hold of yourself. "Necessity is the mother of invention" is foolish trivia if anyone really teaches you. guaivano The fathers and mothers, more and more suffocating in the grip of an intolerable mediocrity: they loved their fathers and sons, but one ripe, knowingly or not, the end of others. And they ...? That they would end them? So Galaverna arrived. Froze the branches and myths. Time stood still crumbling, like an iceberg, the legends of metal spheres of analog ... They began to die. At first - and faster - the young people with four rags on him, without a roof, without a bed, without a fire, on street corners turned into endless desert of ice. Then, the fathers and mothers, more and more feebly begging mercy for themselves and their children. Finally, the old, who had said - and repeated arrangolando cough - that there was no hope ...
Someone gave a directed effort of the assault and attempted to seize the homes of old stoves, blankets, stocks of wood. In vain. The old men were fatally tired, benighted, hopeless, but they were afraid, power and weapons and did not hesitate to shoot on their future, your death, vita mea. our Mors. Before tense in the last gasping breath, dark materialized on the retina an image that baffled and surprised them: light slipping on the ice could be seen arriving in dribs and drabs, incessantly, whether by groups of men unknown, tried but alive . holding on to each other and seemed adust and accustomed to long inauspicata experience, to deal with the Galaverna ...
The great Solomon Burke needs no introduction, but the priest who is accompanying him on acoustic guitar? 
