A Rose

Memories of a stroll through the alleys of my native village in Sicily.

On a chilly and dreary afternoon

I drifted through twisting, narrow alleys

Stepping over ancient cobblestones

Worn out by tired feet of folks of yore

 

My mind wandered through lanes of time

Watching Greek sailors land on river shores

Saw Arabs carving homes from brittle stone

Norman warriors ascending barren hills

 

As I plodded down a steep incline

I came across a solitary hut

Stripped of its cloak, its naked ribs displayed

Deep wounds inflicted by the blows of time

 

Through iron grates of windows without glass

I saw roof tiles scattered on the floor

Glanced at shattered wooden beams

That could no longer bear the emptiness

 

Partly hidden by nettles and by grass

A red rose hangs on a stooping stem

It waived as I passed by, standing forlorn

Its petals frayed by hail and partly torn

 

I kept staring at that pining bloom

She looked at me with a longing glance

As time stood still, in the twilight

Loneliness embraced two solitudes

 

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Imagination can be a projector showing old movies...we long to know the actors in the credits.
j.