We are all pilgrims who seek Italy

Goethe

Etruscan vases, fragile and thin,
the bright lights of an Italian night,
flowers as red as strawberries
on lips, the sound of summer breezes
in the trees; the sweet smell of baking
bread, unhelmeted boys on vespers.
singing songs that worship an emperor; 
truly, only kisses cannot be interrupted,
no holy days here, no mysterious nights
of fear, no clatterings drawing near,
we are all foreigners here, wanderers
who walk stutteringly between light and shade
melodies give shape to this silent world
where the slightest tinge of perfume
lingers forever in this time and place. 

?si=7_7UM6trUX8uIWmX