In the shadow of ancient arches,
where promises linger like whispers in the air,
I see shoes, worn and brilliant,
wandering cobblestone streets,
through neighbourhoods filled with echoes.
The rivalry of past and present
smoulders in furious silence,
as an old friend returns to Ischia,
a memory shaped by salt and sunlight,
where Greek ruins crumble
like the fragile edges of a forgotten study.
I remember
a kiss stolen beneath a lemon tree,
a crush that bloomed and withered
in the golden haze of an afternoon.
Italy is a trap;
its beauty ensnares,
its soul lingers.
The melody of laughter fades,
and for a moment, it seems as though
even the stars disappear,
leaving only the weight of its history
and the unbroken rhythm of life.
