Noi Siamo I Barbari
If you've ever seen Ca' Rezzonico
seeming quite to float
upon the Grand Canal
as you bob in a boat,
or if you've ever eavesdropped
in some Trastevere alley
some golden afternoon
on some tenor's voice a-sobbing
beneath an early moon,
or in Andrea della Valle
breathed in Puccini's subtle chords,
you'll know that life affords
no more sacred boon.
Recondita armonia, literally.
If you've taken in
Albinoni's Adaggio
or gnocchi con formaggio
in a loggia on the Arno
or the slopes of Montepulciano,
or walked in misty thunder
the olive groves of Cennina,
or sat in wordless wonder
in the theater of Taormina,
or witnessed Piero's frescoes
in San Francesco of Arezzo,
or breathed the morning sunlight
or Mascagni's Intermezzo,
seen summer rain in torrents
come laughing down the street,
then you'll know why
or looked down upon fair Florence
like a carpet at your feet,
Italians set at variance
themselves and us,
and call us The Barbarians.
Copyright © Michael Coy | Year Posted 2017
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