Claritas
Scene V from The Shaman, Heretical Story of Francis of Assisi
Francis has returned from war. The journey overseas, the dream of meeting the Sultan, have not brought him peace. He is angry, disappointed, betrayed by his own companions. In this scene he recalls his story: his youth, his hunger for glory, friendship and rivalry with Clare, the difficult bond with Brother Elias, his successor. Now he no longer seeks power, nor loyalty. He claims only freedom, without compromise. He wanted his name to be remembered forever, but now he understands that his truth lies beyond name, beyond definitions, beyond every limit imposed by biography and history.
The rhythm is relentless, warlike. Lute and theorbo march along with the shaman’s words as he confronts his enemies and his fears. The clarinet sings an ambiguous melody, theatrical, dark and ironic, indecipherable and obscure.
Francis will die, but no one will ever find his secret burial place. No one will be able to possess his truth. His message will remain free, ready for anyone who can still speak with the wind, with trees and animals, with the living mystery of nature.
In this piece the instruments converse with environmental sounds recorded in Assisi, inside the Basilica of Saint Francis, in the cloister of San Damiano, in Piazza Santa Chiara, and in Egypt.
This piece is the fifth scene from The Shaman: A Heretical Story of Francis of Assisi, a poetic and musical work that tells the life of the (not yet) saint as an initiatory journey between the worlds of the visible and the invisible.
Lyrics
Here is a possible English translation of the text for this piece. It is as faithful as possible; however, the full semantic nuances and layers of meaning in a poetic text like this cannot be fully rendered in translation. The complete text will be available in Italian in the book + CD Lo Sciamano. Storia eretica di Francesco d’Assisi, to be released later in 2026.
«Arms and soldiers of a powerful friend and noble, defend me now from the black words of these men as already you once saved me from the devout brigands of Laverna, when they tried to kill this body in orrido sunk down.
I a knight without a horse unhorsed (under escort) stole away their god and the commerce that every temple requires as sacrifice, to make new the name of the ancient sanctuary, like a new Adam new names on the wild invisible beasts in the caves outside the walls to impose.
Arms, defend me now from whoever takes from me ‘l privilege and ‘l whim of being poor first, and seals the order and the book with gold leaf. Oak leaves, not shining metal, were and are my precious parchment of the past necessary pre-vision, writing of what was and will be present.
The privilege and ‘l whim stolen by the magi of Rome, who will serve tomorrow the corpse and immortal will call my name, Franciscus, today prisoner in the subterranean foundations of a sacred military fortress of pale stone, temple of vertigo and sublime color: theology, splendor of forked tongue.
I take off the military robe, I renounce the banner, and forced I watch myself fall in this valley and yield, as already I had to yield and fall to the sickness of the body. Prisoner defeated in battle, not at Collestrada in the war, not at besieged Dumyaat: today of glory and of armies hope abandons me, and my eyes burn in this Porziuncola. Nor ever again will I be chevalier de Provence.
Arms, in dream appeared sign that never perishes of victory, where are you? Of which king today are you the court?
Eternity has the name of Rome, and a price has the millenary memory of a name, Franciscus: with red earth of sinopia to trace the line of a face, and in the narrow space of a portrait in fresco to confine the identity that lived infinite.
Thus, similar to the sovereigns of Egypt, alive I am buried in the pyramid that I wanted among the men of Babel high tower.
For the name that they called mine, for the name, at the head of five thousand friars in march, on the great squares I chose the cautious words that do not mark the rich fabrics; at the table of princes I tasted the shark and the prawn and almost I lost my sight in the Orient (never sated of arms) and I gave secret vengeance and death to my traitor brothers for the immortality of a name that they called mine.
But how much more beautiful would a rose be if it had no price and no name of rose?
I refused therefore and forbade the new magic of money, in the first and only rule that I wanted single order: because price is a foreign name for all things, foreign measure for the earth. I refused therefore the magic of bread and of wine: because it is a foreign magic.
Incomprehensible and dark is the language of money and of theology, pious trick to hide and conceal the sacred theatre of fictions that holds men together, curtain of masks, chain of velvet.
Chiara, lady of elegances, more than me accustomed to noble garments (and irritated by the knight who claimed obediently to yield you the step), you well know the rites of the warlike art, and you can with better deftness handle their secrets, without being subjugated by their glare; I instead wanted men free from the enchantments that are strength to the powerful, but seduced by eternity I was forced into the commerces that only arms can pay.
Arms, daughters of Mars, just it was to place your dwelling in a field outside the walls: I foolish jester, monumentum aere perennius, wanted the city outside and you within, and new Prometheus I carry today the weight of ineluctable unnatural guilt.
Brother Elia, with the black tools of gold you carved the pink stones that will defend the corpse of a man from thieves and raiders, but I beg you hide from the sight of the many the useless remains of a life, make that far from the noisy splendor of a basilica fortress of sublime rhythm, this my body underground should not have still to bear the weight of a name: Franciscus.
Who will seek a living one in that hidden tomb will find nothing, if not the enchantment of herbs, flights of birds, woods of mute grace and the secret path of fate.»
Credits
Voice of Francis of Assisi: Alessandro Ciacci.
Clarinet, bass clarinet, gralla, and ocarina: Alessio Zanovello.
Lute and theorbo: Luciano Bernardi.
Synthesizers, harpsichord, portative organ, and percussion: Carlo Matti.
Field recordings by Carlo Matti in Assisi and Fortunago (PV, Italy), and by Davide Franzosi in Egypt.
Production, mixing, and mastering: Carlo Matti.