via Scarangella - Poem #27

A Poem by toritto

Narrow street of ancient age
your memories are shining
your beauty still as new
though your stones were worn
well before she was ever born.

Your grace is of a young girl
twirling; pulling her hair
in endless motion; you do not repose
’till suddenly you grow still,
quiet as night envelopes stone.

Birds lower their voices
in their silent balconies
while you breathe and dream
new golden dreams of those who have left you
and those who still may go.