are the Italians still singing
or have they too fallen silent
like ghostly St Peter's Square?
The rug is pulled from the feet
of this materialistic world as I
stare at flowers under an azure sky;
lesser celandine, a silky pink rose
sway softly in the warm breeze;
oblivious to the suffering
of humankind whose technology
is impotent in every nation
oh, the thin ice of civilisation
Escaping from grim news inside,
here I am caressed by God;
resurrected flowers on a sun-kissed day.