A journalist with the Ultras Granata
Thoughts of curve Maratona
I saw them clinging to a flag to wave their soul breathe smoke, tear drums and disintegrate their voice choking the scream of a goal.
I met them in distant trains, colorful transfer, a pilgrimage to a memory, a dream. I discovered them in icy winter nights, half-naked in balustrade, warmed by the fire of faith, with a megaphone in his hand and the bull between your teeth. I escort them in hard stations war between loops in anger and fierce blinking sirens, tears of tear gas, in nights of invasion.
I heard their songs in curve by the smell of marijuana, in search of a paradise never had a woman who does not wait for more, a system that can not understand them.
I dipped my pen in the ink of the Marathon, I burned words, I painted their anger and I'm proud. The curve is launching its recall and fan it is attracted to the place where the white skull goes with the cloth grenade I found a hard world but authentic, where thoughts punctuate the chorus in unison, unique, important and true.
Beyond the border of reality, as well as the intangible understanding, and, above all and above all, one name: Ultras Granata.
Add a touch of prestige and more sensitivity to your events, invite Ermanno Eandi