The word…magic formula of human expression, from the childish syllable of a baby to the last word of the dying.
It’s the simple, instictive, spontaneous word which saved a cultural heritage that would have been completely lost instead, and the constant work of volunteers that have caught the essence of it, so we can appreciate scenes of Appenninic life, handed down by the ancestors, who had nothing to do with writing if not some priest, phisician or druggist or other relevant charachter in the life of town. And it’s like this that we can hear what constituted our granfathers’life, the patrimony of “lived” that they have always shown in their lullabies, songs, proverbs, ballads, without counting stories “zirudelle” and rigmaroles.
It wasn’t simple, for who made it, retrace from quartier to quartier, from house to house, the old, sometimes reserved, marvellous masters of poetry, rhymes, melodies, but if our heirs will be able to understand and appreciate what was in their past, from the precious testimonies and in a direct, effective way, the old and who dedicated to them great part of his free time will be the one to thank.