Florence
Dante hated Florence,
called it dark and dreary
and was driven out of it
and robbed of all his life,
his family and home and riches
like by some step-mother cruelty,
and somehow I agree:
there always was some latent madness there,
a deadly threat to creativity,
to the dynamic positive expansion,
to the craving freedom of the mind
and always violent reactions.
I was never quite at home there
but felt pressed by the imposing splendour
of the only capital of arts there still is in the world.
Respectfully I keep my distance
leaving her in peace like a museum
and prefer to keep my distance
only as a passer-by, not to disturb
or wake up all those monsters of the past.
Poetry by Christian Lanciai
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Written on 2007-10-12 at 10:11
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