to italy, i often go
in dreams and visions of my mind;
my sight is weak, infirm, purblind,
but yet, i long to be there so.

my ancestors were northern born,
they knew not of the taste of wine;
or how the olive trees align
the warmth of the italian morn.

but yet, although of celtic stock,
the ancient lure of roman lands
is sent my way in strong commands –
via appia there, to walk

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