You are your creator.

The glorious architect,

A pure reflection

Of a man that bears fruit 

Of stacked stone and clay tile.

Oh, but yours-

You bear anything that thrives

Under the Mediterranean sky.

The emerald hills and bursting branches

Are merely a distant backdrop to your splendor!

You once bloomed

In daughters with hickory hair

And peculiar artists.

They were the breath of crimson in your corridors,

But you have bled out.

And here you stand,

Orphaned.

For your creator is long gone.

He is merely bones

In Tuscany somewhere.

Your worth is now measured in euros

By a sleaze smelling heavily of cigars

Who only visits when wide eyed foreigners

Are ready to pay an arm and a leg

But will repeat history again.

And here you stand,

Adorned in garments of green,

A watcher over the village,

Seemingly as magnificent 

As the day you caught your first breath.

But I know-

The vines that creep into your crevices,

Make your crumbling walls ache.

I see that your vineyards slouch

And cobwebs collect in your corners.

And I am certain

You grieve the squealing toddlers,

Midnight stirring and wine-drunk laughter.

Because now it’s only you,

The spiders, and the Tuscan sun.

For you are your creator.

Oh how you are abundant in fruits!

But in the end,

Merely bones

In Tuscany somewhere.