FRIENDS, THE PARTY IS OVER FOR BARALDINI
of George Ruffolo


The American torturers of the Baraldini have struck still, [peggiorandone] the condition [carceraria] with a perfidious back of the hand: they have struck with it from Danbury to Rebibbia. And, in a blink, with a sadistic masterpiece of unintentional irony, they have done it making us implore first for years, and then celebrate like a victory, the pejorative transfer from the American purgatory to the Roman hell; and without any renunciation of our belief in the "goodness" of Americans.

We have all participated in the deception, and in the circus of a transfer: there were petitions, injunctions, proclamations and diplomatic first initiatives, (even the suspicion of an obscene barter regarding the pilots of Cermis ); festoons, [grancassa] and flags at that time, for celebration. Better, for celebrating the turning point (historic moment!?).

In this affair, Silvia Baraldini was not really a person. She came disguised as a symbol. She was just a football disputed between this and that half of the field. She was treated as a
symbol and yet managed like parcel post item. Of her real fate and of her life mattered much to the ([strumentalizzati]) fans but nothing to the players.

Because the Baraldini "package" has arrived in Italy with the writing « fragile» and special VIP transport costing half billion lire (a sufficient sum to maintain a life style with oysters and champagne), while today Baraldini doesn't even have permission to use an obsolete computer. Here because an also serious minister tried to run under the [scaletta] of the airplane for kick that ball as soon as landed to center of the field. But nothing as compare to the [boato] of the curve south, with thousand fans and [striscioni] lined up to the entry of Rebibbia waiting to see to enter the ball in door. And when the time came and the Baraldini set foot in the Italian jail (sigh promised earth), badminton red roses, and the crowd explodes singing the song written on purpose for Silvia (almost a novella ala Guevara) "Six [rinchiusa] in cell for a dream and an ideal". 

<<Translator's Note: I will clean the remainder up as time allows -- JR>>

Cossutta, then, throws himself straight into cell ([pardon], the door), to proclaim the [goal] and cover the ball of red roses. Perhaps Baraldini believes us and is totally deluded. But as soon as the door is closed, the key was thrown away. After the game we keep the defeated cup, but it is of interest to nobody -- like a wine cellar for preserving the ball. The party is over!.

Silvia Baraldini, already combative ensign against the American imperialism in the American prisons, she succumbs now to the wall of rubber of our penitentiary bureaucracy that makes it impossible to have a job teaching English; or that of translator (offered from the Arci), interposing difficulty to the use of the computer or to the traffic of the [floppy disks] with the texts (where he/she/it/you is easy hide a file). The all while Sofri [impazza], almost with office stamps dedicated. I don't have nothing against Sofri. Nutro, even serious doubts on his guilt (but also on his innocence); despite the more tried prisoner is (and therefore guaranteed) from Italy.

But because two weights and two measures? What does he have Sofri that the Baraldini doesn't have? But so much also is worth for all the others, unknown, forgotten in the [anfratti carcerari] from Italy; and treatises otherwise from Sofri [superstar]. 

Perhaps, you/he/she/it for unusual [specularità] seem to also be worth for the prisoners as is in force for the magistrates, their enquirers and [giudicanti].

He/she/it/you to few of them is reserved you/he/she/it capsize it, the escort and the laser printers (and even a future seat in Parliament). While the so much other (almost all) serious, competent and reserved judges write by hand sentences and reprimands.