Love, by Memorial Mold
Their hands looked as if did not want to forsake that red thread, connected to the pure egg that hatched by giving birth to them.
A thread that linked them up to a mythological fate, invisible to the young and inexperienced eyes in the depths of brushwood.
Children who covered the fingers tip with sparkling and solid thimbles, afraid of owning wounding claws.
Through time and experience, everything has changed into maturity, going further along that mythical thread: enough of the acceptance of a segregating tradition, because of an origin invented by man which makes them appendixes in a male-chauvinist story, where they were born by a humble bone sliver, that anthropologically forces them to adaptation.
Alessandra Baldoni ’s women swept away the tale to recover the role of chosen souls, who proudly walk out of custom, fortified by a primitive spark, well-known as untamed soul. -Viviana Siviero-