Corteo

June 3, 2011
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There is an organ.
Bright flames illuminate a dark, dusty room.
Church bells toll.
The mahogany doors swing open
And the dark streets of an Italian city greet me.

Wooden carts and sad horses,
Pass children begging for food,
Walk by a plague-ridden house.
Then, bright lights.

The world spins to reveal a city of wonder
In the black of night.
I’m confused by this swirling dream.
No, a nightmare.

A young gypsy dances toward me,
Bells on her hands and feet,
Her hips swing and her eyes are closed.
As she dances away,
I see a child on her back.

In the church again.
The bells toll one more time.
Then it all disappears.





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