Francesco Kulla

Francesco Kulla approaches the lighthouse. Its white crystal eye marks a termination of his journey. And the other, the ruby eye, object of his devotion, was the sign that he should first depart. He has been on the road for years, perhaps decades. In any event, when he tells it, he will exaggerate. Proceeding step by step, always in the same dirt-black suit, always barefoot. Now with a baseball cap, pilfered, its caption: ‘Can I buy you a drink or do you just want the cash?’ Soiled, his hair beneath it, the same. Without shoes but with head protected. The dissymmetry pleases Kulla. It will give his body a forward momentum demanding no hesitation, one foot and then the next. And he sings.

Kulla knows the colours. He knows the crystal. He carries it with him in his left trouser pocket. A treasured object. His fingers move across its surface. Ruby red eyes have brought him to the road. (But who's going to shoe Kulla's pretty little foot? Who's going to glove his hand?) Kulla knows the crystalliferious earth. He knows the fertile grounds. Brother's going to shoe Kulla's pretty little foot. Brother's gonna glove his hand…