myopic murmurs

Honeysuckle and lavender pervade the warm Italian breezes, The ageless mill churns water into the distance, How simple and sweet this rustic life seems to me! Far from the imposing gray buildings that blot out the sun, from the unhappy noises of city-goers, pushing past each other for the illusion of greatness. This place where the lady down the road smiles as you pass her, turning her head to tell you "buona giornata".

Nightingales and finches in wonderful song, savour the golden sun Who breathes life into the very depths of the wood. The air is crisp with the scent of untainted peonies, And here I sit, sheltered by a striped veranda, satisfied as one can be, With Chet Baker's sonorous voice drifting from inside the red house.