Barga, where the through-lines meet
High up on a Tuscan hill,
climbing
clouds that run through
pastel buildings like spilled watercolour
A nook in the mountains, where all things blur.

The bell tolls.
And I’m no longer da sola
but a blend of all colourful nations
that swirl and spiral through mixed blood.
A lineage of love
And language.
In Barga, I was all that came before
and all that will succeed me.
In Barga, I was all.

The bell tolls.
I slipped into the honey eyes of a golden promise
And said yes.
I placed a hand on olive skin
And seen the silk road that
opened wide to the gates of Damascus,
to a world
I was ready to merge with.

We are spilled ink.
No borders to be defined.
No chiseled sculptures.
No David’s frown.

Clarity was always on the edge
of scrupulous Michelangelo’s fingertips.
The bell tolls
And still, under the drizzle of this soft Italian Sunday,
it all feels more like…

Monet.