Volsiniese Territory

And… towards the end of July:
the star filled sky;
the lament of the crickets;
a sweet melancholy
and that bewitching nocturnal mist,
gently creating various shapes,
arabesques of dim light and shadows,
and then slowly dashing between the rows of the vineyards and
the poplars of the lake,
just brightened from pale reflections of a far, tacit Moon.

A world made of modest things, of soil, of colours, of sounds…;
methodically regulated by the Sun, by the changing of the seasons;
an ancient world, now in the myth, and unfortunately lost,
vanished in those mystical dawns, between deserted lake shores,
the olive trees, the boats, and those azure country roads,
not yet paved,
perfumed herbs and flowers
wet and twinkling dew.

Leave a message for Erkembode or leave your shoes atop the tomb...

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