Rooftops under a blue sky,
Hills in the distance,
Fading into mountains
Where the horizon is painted
With palettes of blue and grey.
Fragments of the outside world
Contained within a window frame,
2x1 meter of freedom.
Close-by the air is filled with the sound
Of children playing in the street,
Of church bells ringing in the evening,
Of laughter and chirping birds,
Transforming a small Italian backyard
Into a reminiscence of music
In a world that has gone silent.
Desperately we stretch out our hands
In pursuit of a ray of sunshine,
In pursuit of a little piece of this puzzle,
Of proof that the sky has not been locked down,
That the horizon has not withered into grey clouds,
Trying to catch an echo of this colourful world
To decorate our empty walls within.
But all we feel is a soft breeze,
Caressing our skin with the gentle touch
Of a warm summer night,
Full of promises gone in the morning.
A whisper of sunsets captured in wine bottles
When the evening fades into the night,
Of strolling through pompous Renaissance palaces
And getting lost in narrow medieval streets,
Of vine yards and mountains stretching into the sea,
Glistening in the sun as it pours itself into the horizon.
A murmur of memories unlived and of stories untold,
Vanished into the wind like a silent song,
Leaving us a behind a dirty window,
An empty wine bottle in our hands,
Under our skin a poem written
Of expectations unfulfilled.