and when spring was just

peeking around the corner,

they packed just a few belongings and,

on a whim, left for that Tuscan city.

Those cobble-stoned sidewalks,

the architectural mementos,

the religious relics and artistic masteries –

the entire valley seemed nestled between

the pages of a history book, cracked open

by an eagerly early Mediterranean breeze.

almost entirely incognito, they mingled

with the locals, roamed through vineyards,

strolled through orchards of olives, rosemary, lavender, pines.

each sunset, each sip, sat serenely still in time.

and upon their return,

as a new season was about to begin

for them back home as well,

they wondered about the future,

even the present of that place.

what happens

when the glory of the past

gets captured behind museal glass?

the promise of modernity

relies on young folks running toward the horizon,

still unsure if and how they’ll balance on it

but utterly excited to get there.

where, in this place,

do new dreams get forged?

they’ll get dented right away

if old, lose shingles keep smashing down.

seems as though the old ateliers

need a new christening.

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