Milan (-45 Days-)

A pattern of verdant grass blades shoot from the ground, and we step
on their delicate and fragile arches, which bend submissively beneath our feet,
oppressed and crushed to the Earth’s floor, while we unknowingly diminish their glory.

Through the Y-shaped bends in the tall maple trees, we can peer
through branches created long before we were, and fix our eyes on the shifting
crowds of no more than a few at once, who move and blend together like the aromas of cooking
on a warm, summer evening when they become one in the heavy air.

And we behold the magnificence of the grand cathedral, ringing with the hums
and haunting sounds of chanting, which rise and seep through the stone walls in abundance
and pour out onto the cobblestone paths and busy streets,
and we marvel at its stature, its enchanting construction which bleeds brilliance from
every one of its pinnacles, from the peaks of every tower.

Soft light gathers in the creases of ancient sculpting, created by diligent hands
that once moved with agility as it shaped the white and streaked marble,
the glazed plaster that now forms the human design as art, and we take notice
of the perfect hands, intricate fingertips, arched legs, tilted heads, sorrowful expressions
which effortlessly gather the glances of they who pass, and wonder
as we do.