He asked me, in perfect Italian, to write a poem about his beloved village. I replied, in broken English and with wine on my lips, that I would. What lies beneath is the patchwork of words I started over a year and a half ago and finished tonight. I'll never be satisfied with it and I can only hope for an Italian translator to make the poem more romantic than I ever could.
Your cracks reveal stories, not age
Seducing the stranger, demanding his fidelity
Though your bones ache from the weight of mortals past
Mother-duty shoulders in silence
Shrugging off shifting earth, the span of time
The mountains raise in buttress support
as salute to your beauty
The burghers hold your secrets,
and the watchtower waits
Curious passerby riveted by your idyllic mystery
journey through medieval maze,
morphing as they pass
Glances backward, scenes of shattered glass
holy ground for the wandering heart,
you remain an aching memory.