Perhaps the attraction to cemeteries is my diagnosis. But it should be noted that more often they find me than I them.
And walking along the Ponza and rushing as usual toward the clouds it turned out that at the very top of the mountain there was a peacefully snoozing stone abode of those who finished they road. There is nomidday chatter, screaming gulls or rustle of the soles on the ground here.
Wind is the master here, warm and soft carrying piece of the sea merging with the sky. It envelops you and drags you to the next turn of the white maze suddenly disappearing in a bend leaving a scent of cypress and salt.
Here light comes not from above but from a sun-drenched stone. And the dead sit in white clothes on the heated stones absorbing their warmth and looking at the sea because «In heaven that’s all they talk about — the sea — and how wonderful it is...»
A distant bell pierces the silence... ah, yes, Siesta ... goodbye kiss of the wind ... it's time to return.
Have a good day, MarrySav!)
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