Where mountain ridges are desolated grey,
dusty roads bend through a sun scorched valley
and summer rivers run dry under stone bridges,
hides a small village where fragrant flowers
hang from balconies of sand coloured houses.
There the street is a Via which leads to the Piazza
in front of an old Palazzo, where a fountain stands
which once has known falling water and beneath
a starlit velvet sky, in where the moon hangs high,
music and laughter ripple through the summer night.