ABSTRACT
Memory is the faculty of love, it gives back to eternity that which time devours and hate destroys. It does not prevent the loss, does not obstruct death; that is not in its power, nor is it in the power of love. The silence, the immobility of death, continues in these stones, which, however, shelter the movements of a minimal life, they are the necessary scene of it. The postures, gestures, are still those of every day, the faces maintain the changing vibrations of the emotions; and yet, it is as if the distance between a here of life and a there of death, could lessen and disappear. Adorno said that after Auschwitz, poetry is no longer possible: but this is the affirmation of someone who lived the years of horror in a tranquil university campus, not of someone who survived a death camp, like Music.
