Emilia Romagna

(Bologna)

Terracotta handstroke

stuck  bricks to bricks

formed streets, towers and gates

like reverse earthquakes.

Arches of days and nights

dark green and blue

named after saints or criminals.

Years turn to bricks of sancturies.

Smile turns grim and perches

on the brim of senses.

As violin plays on memory,

smoky winter’s melody.

Now, the angel makes love

to fallen, gray and fat dove

in plenty of melted butter,

in mouldy friary’s kitchen.

Meanwhile the monk stutters

lovers profile quickly turn to

intricate calligraphic patterns

on venous bricklayer’s hand.

Gyula Friewald © 28/06/2012