Poetry: Pompeii

Dawn.
Cappuccino. Aroma of Amalfitana.
On cobbled path
fishermen talk gently.
Eduardo opens his fruit-stall
a quick brush stroke
of Cezanne.
Old men with cigars and coffee
talk gently on Italy; news.
Behind smoke
they look like frescoes from Pompeii.
The morning arrives.
Birds cry
they have day-long fights ahead
sparrows are busy
to picking at bread morsels.
What's the day today?
Saturday, Sunday?
The sea does not remember these trifles.
Yet, everyday
the sea awakes the sun
the mountain awakes the sun
flowers bloom,
seagulls stand on submerged stone
these stones are waiting there
for millions of years.
They have travelled so far.
From Terre Del Greco
the winding road leads north.
El Visuvio sleeps,
but the people are awake.
The sacred old evenings are
burned to ashes.
The flow of black volcanic rock
sleeps like the spring of death.
By the shadow of the volcano
under the bush
lovers explore
the heat of volcano
from each others body.
El Visuvio may erupt?
Ti amo Ti amo mia cara
Ti amo Ti amo mio caro
Down below they see Pompeii.
Sofia Loren
with huge eyes and teasing smile
calls for the sea.
The Monalisa with real flesh and blood.
The sleepy town waits
under the feet of the Empress
like a puppy.
Sun riped young girls' bodies
caressed by sun for the full day.
They are back to their home.
Those sun-perfumed bodies
learned the whisper of waves
The small boats
on the top of the waves.
They bob.
They deal with sea, in their room.
Together,
the mountain and the sea
rap a light ash color blanket
on the bloody face of the sun.
Somewhere a piano plays
the tune flies to the horizon
like a bat
in the vast opaque darkness.