And their rustic beauty

Seem to be endless

And are spotted with

Houses and huts

Of sun-kissed bricks,

Born of Sicilian furnaces


Among houses and huts

Were villas of those men

With wives and children and horses and guns

Who saw only mounds of gold

And now, have nothing

But a view of the earth

From its bosom


One such villa

On a distant hill

With a wall for guard

That beams at the Sun, like a liar

And bears a rambler bush

Protects a lonely build

With silent windows


The building is incomplete

Without the rambler bushes,

The tree of Sicilian oranges in

The courtyard, the pigeons,

The shepherds looking for their sheep,

And the rust that embraces

The cold steel


Inside, there’s nothing

That tells that it was too

Once, a happy home but

There are stains of blood

Which paint the walls,

Telling, that there was

No happy ending


Beneath the blue sky

The silhouettes of burnt chairs

Dwell in dark shadows

 Of roofless, crushed walls

Remembering the past

The cheerful past

That will never come back.












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