Italian tourist

I could dive into the colours,

inhale the colours,

eat the colours with my eyes,

be lost in them

old Italian buildings: faded pale yellow

peeling ochre

salmon-pink

terracotta red

balconies overspilling with flowers,green plants

and the colours, and the colours,

are just glorious,

peeling away to the two-tone stone beneath,

white marble and brown brick,

so I stroll through as a tourist, idle, 

history mild and old, captured in a jar

but

but 

and again – 

what’s that red but dried blood on skin, 

the history is not done.

Today we are gathering from all over Europe,

driving, by train, across the mountain borders and the broad rivers,

a tiny gathering of people in a fascist town,

where the fascists plant their office in the midst of the poorest quarter,

and down an alleyway the footie fans find you and

knock you down.

And on your skin is dried blood.

And the colours are black and white,

together,

all under one sun,

the music plays, the songs bind us,

and again. It was only ever a few, gathered in a small town,

it was only ever

Verona 11.10.24

© Doina Cornell 2024

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