italy25
A land of pastel bricks and verdant green,
The streets are wash with nonchalance,
Roads which seem so sparse and somehow thin,
From birdlike view like scalpels cut:
So roman through the hills and plains.
Ascending heights all mount in glory,
A saddle of the earth here ruled,
And there so highly lifted up: a cross,
The crown of all such escapades,
The beauty in the bricks and gothic face,
The light that grants the world to see,
That is the one who made its horror majesty.
A world of other minds obscured,
By thick conveyor belts, industrial queues,
By automated baits and hidden cages,
I've almost had it with the thing! I'm through.
But here I find a dusty tact,
The molten microphones of old,
These here are real thoughts,
These here are real minds in bold.
A coliseum of trees looms regal and imposing,
Their give to slip within a breeze,
Their hands to hold each strand of fire,
Gold-laced and burdening the air,
Their sterness overleans into tranquility,
Bastions on the hills come watchmen of a gentry garden pool.
Open streets so ragged in their years,
The scent of culture and the fading time,
A waft of old books is ever overwhelmed
By the smell of fresh bread.
Or at least such tales in all their rhymes,
Ever cling to this city like musty spells,
It is becoming and so old, so sacred yet unclean,
The halls ascend in green and pale,
The gold to kiss the hallowed heads of many saints,
But there a turn and all is freshly new,
That man would clothe himself in splendour yet remain unchanged,
He is the same beneath unless so humbly touched.
This pasta predicament has us cooked,
Old floppy spies too long in the pot,
These spaghetti lines cut too easy,
Leaving our intel rather... al dante,
See you behind some tasty tasty bars,
Tomatom, and Pestor.
P.S. Luckily they are fettuccini.