Tendering the Truth, my fingers move to the musical notes
The lighted years in their length-way of keyboard keys.
as steams of faint lines illuminating temples in sound,
holy places of design:
drums, horns, and strings sounding high and low along the way.
Walking in the steps of others before,
even with those marching in the thunder of wars,
and the holy echoes from graves and judgement,
My fingers tap out the beat, passing among the years,
as the Truth’s plants abound along the cliff and rocks
Oh, my Manarola!
The rainfall covers the air together with the sea-mistings
sculpturing the coastal mountains, along the way, with the fragrances
lemon and olive trees
release the perfumes from beached pigments,
cobalt blue-violet, lime-mist green
sparking red dots of light
coloring the music,
upon my ear from the inside.