Tendering to the truth, my fingers move to the musical notes,
light years in their length along the 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.
My fingers tap out the beat, passing among the years,
like seed of plants, abounding 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
from lemon and olive trees
releasing 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.