The breeze from the east,

The evil breeze blows from the east, but in Sardinia it gains strength and transforms into an ancestral wind of civilization.
The same divine wind that spreads everywhere, bringing scents of myrtle, agave spores, and new ideals.
And scents of moss attached to the nuraghi.
Smells of moss that impregnates the orgone energy of the Sardinian temples, scents and energies to be breathed intensely.
Smells of moss that is inhaled by the new Sardinians intent on watching the stars that wander in the sky, stars that collect the legacy of the ancient giants.
We are children of Mamma Sardinnia, children of wind and honor, children of juste vendetta, and of strong friendships.
Children of the Barbagia code, of divine right, of the portents that here become normality.
Freedom runs in the wind, it cannot be extinguished, or caged, it runs fast and expands, it goes where it decides to go.
Ancestral Sardinianness carried by the wind, pride falsely mistaken for desire for solitude, honor is not recognized with digital signs, with false and imposed consumption, and with stinking cultural domains.
Honor is not recognized in education but in the strength of culture and logic.
Honor is patience often mistaken for subordination.
We are us, we are Sardinians, everything started from here, our civilization envied and copied in remote times, and now disregarded, vilified and mocked.
We are us, those who traveled, those who lived history when other peoples were immersed in prehistory.
We are those who distributed symbols and signs to peoples and their rulers.
We are not Italians, we are not Europeans, we are not Africans, we are children of a land forgotten by those who received culture, writing, and parenthood from us, we are simply Sardinians, we are the descendants of those who generated all civilizations.