Between ninety-five and ninety-nine,
in summers of light and sweat,
I set off for Portugal,
with sound in my hands and a camera around my neck.
A festival carried us far away,
from Lisbon all the way to the sea,
each day a new road,
each evening a stage to set up.
And on days without music,
I lost myself among faces and hills,
among white houses and ancient cork oaks,
among silences and children’s voices.
I shot without thinking too much,
because every corner felt like poetry.
Porto, Coimbra, Braga, Fátima,
the coast full of wind and salt,
small towns like postcards, joyful festivals and proud people,
that reminded me of Southern Italy.
And then there were them, the Roma children,
with deep eyes and bare feet,
curious, wary,
yet ready to smile before a sincere lens.
One day, on the outskirts of Porto,
I found a camp made of tin and cloth,
and four children came out proudly,
to show me what they called home.
A carpet on the ground, an open sky,
but a dignity that still moves me today.
And just a few steps away, the new villas,
a thousand years distant from that invisible world.
Those were hard times,
for those born without water, school, or rights.
But those photos, today, are living memory,
they are light that does not fade,
they are the song of a journey that continues
every time I look at them.
