In memory of Francesco Fortugno

It stops pecking the crumbs of bread that my mum scattered last evening on the terrace. It's a white pigeon. The peace flag hanging on the grille is fading but the pigeon has come to see us anyway.
It pecks some crumbs and, sometimes, it seems to look at me, stealthily. It's completely white, without any brown or black spots. It is so pure.

On that day he went to the polling station. It was in the afternoon and, even though it was autumn, the temperature was still high.
He was walking quietly along the road. He always had a smile and a warm greeting for all those he met along the way.
While he was going into the polling station he passed just in front off the faded peace flag hanging on the gate.

When the pigeon has stopped pecking the few crumbs, it flew up, maybe looking for a roof to settle on: in fact, he didn't like staying on branches of threes, they weren't safe enough. It seemed to trust more in the works of man that's why it preferred houses as shelter.
While it was flying towards the countryside looking for a roof, I heard a hissing sound and than a strong thud.

I saw his body lying on the ground. The peace pigeon had just been killed.