The intimate and overwhelming satisfaction of shouting what we believe, what we love, what we think, what we wish.
The identitary and essential decision of not shutting up not even when someone is threatening us with flares of impotent and empty glances.
The river's force, travelling towards the sea with all its natural and unstoppable power, deafening with the lofty stridor of the free water. The angry hoots of those who are willing to stop the forthright Earth's energy.
The golden tremor of the vineyard's leaves in the hills, in an iniciatic autumn, like clandestine flags celebrating the people's victory, humble, stubborn, real, patient.
The grandparents, the grandchildren, the armed wings with ballpens and paper sheets, and poems, and candles, and chants, and prayers... in a dark slavery's night hidden for decades.
The slow crutch that advances towards the votation's institute, to say what the fascists said would be silence for ever, seventy five years ago. Not even the emptiness of the ephemeral nastiness of the mandataries will not be able to stop the crutch. The wise and age-old heart, has been discretely beating many years inside a meat made of figures by the scavengers regime.
The people's force that push and require, that are not afraid, that are not afraid...
The people that exist because they want to exist, versus the state which only exists if it scares people.
The shining gray of a cloudy sunday, when the state's power fails to silence the country, when the green homeland turns into a temple, and when people turn into freedom's priests.
The sovereignty that returns to the people, because the people never renounced it. And the people walking towards a future full of peace and hope.