On a mountain overlooking the sea
Lies my native ancient town;
It has pleasant valleys and steep, lonely roads…
And a climate which enraptures the soul. 

• Germoglino Saggio (1893-1972)

A century later, from a high balcony

The poet’s grandson squints

As puckered-up Irises anticipate dawn

Bent in opposite directions,

By a swirling offshore gale.

Here, African swallows trace for him

The Sage’s rhyme schemes,

Above weathered terra cotta roofs

The ancient geometries never yielding to history

Or its inhabitant’s broken hearts.

Note: The epigraph is from my grandfather’s To My Native Town, translated from the original Italian.