Itri

Itri, photo by J.R. Forbus - all rights reserved

Across this town came

all proud and the same—

gods and generals,

saints and brigands,

some bearing arms,

others asking for alms.

Here, olive trees are

older than rocks,

and ancient grannies

wiser than hills.

In winter, a river

is born from the mountains

and runs to the sea,

lost among the weeds.

Here the hawk flies

upon the castle’s top,

looking far and wide

to the bluest of skies.

Here, the beauty of women

is outdone by their hearts.

Here, the wine is so red

it flows like blood to the flesh;

from the grave,

its call raises the dead.

Can you hear their bones cracking

as they begin to dance?

Here, of all places,

I like to tread—

look around and listen

to the million sounds

of silence.

Here in the shade I shall rest

till the sun

over the hills and across the town

has passed.

by Jason R. Forbus