He was a young one: milk-eyed and red-haired and dressed in raw flowered silks, captivating the restless & bone-white streets of Venice. Canals churned the city's life-blood and he stirred through them, longing and losing, fleeing and chasing, tossed beneath the ever-present gaze of Saint Mark's Lion and the light of the moon. Lips and limbs presented themselves round gold-lit piazza pavements where they served good wine, unaffordably good wine, and they extended tipping hands awaiting kisses and then they curtsied, all tender-wrapped in ribbons, but love -
colpo di fulmine, that wretched lightning, hit wondrous and fruit-ripe and expelled rainfall from him. Deep arms pulled him from her (some say the arms of Aphrodite, where the air was poisonous and eager to pull him to sweet pieces), but he fled to
la Ville lumière, to a cobble-wet island, reaching, tugging strings from his chest until there was no more heart to play. She sailed on a ship, on sick and bruised English waters, she wore green gloves. He grew old, and he died.
These are songs for the young who keep books and the mad who tear out their pages, the seducers and the cowards, the escapees and fanatics amongst us who know what it means to swallow blueberry wine and from it gather all the stars in our throats. These are songs for Casanova.
( Never let them take it )Please comment if you download. Enjoy!!
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