Verona is a nice Italian town with narrow sunlit streets, scurrying around cyclists and scooter drivers, constantly winking Italian men and lying on every corner cats and dogs.
Tourists are numerous. Cafes for these tourists are even more numerous. As a conscientious tourist I touched the bust of that very Juliet who never ever was in Verona. The poor girl was occupied on all sides and all her naturally protruding parts where polished to a shiny luster.
But this entire pretty town, sun-drenched and filled with noise and crowds of tourists proved to be nothing in comparison to the small cemetery located across the river.
After all the midday flickering this silent and deserted place was simply divine. There was no desire to do anything, not to make photos, not to go somewhere deep but just sit still on the steps and listen to the chirping of insects among miniature gravestones. And finally the hostess who hided among the cool shade of the columns at my arrival finally deciding that I was not a threat and left her asylum walking among the graves as light breeze, enveloping in midday slumber and touching something very intimate inside.
I sat there for a long time looking the soul of the cemetery walking on her possessions. And it was not something corruptible and dark, this being was infused with the light, woven from the wind, pulsating sounds and comprehensive wisdom.
I would sit like this forever but the cemetery is a cemetery even in the middle of a weekday there are visitors. The creature disappeared. Consciousness is startled by a sudden sound flood of human speech, beeping cars and crows cawing. The meeting was over. And even the sadness of leaving was weary and pleasant.
Have a good day, MarrySav!)
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