Photo by Fabio Paleari
Where are we to find love but in the broken-hearts of our old cities? In the cities’ own broken European-hearts. Within the chandeliered hallways. In the memory of the majesty and mistakes.
And our ghosts haunt the rooms still, with the memories of our laughter Sometimes you are carried aloft and they hang streetlights for you. Which make distant castles of echoes eagles, all lit in the last incandescents, Castles of pure light with no body and no boredom, your limelit parade and dazzled parties.
And the winter lovers made a box for their letters, and they left it behind the bar with Sergio, the hotel barman. This is how the lovers would leave a trace for each other when they passed by the Principe di Savoia, of when they. Passed by Milano, or when it was winter…..
“Everything we have done”, she wrote to them, “and everything we owned,
just lipstick traces on a cigarette…”
Text from the poem
The Last Incandescents