Vicalvi is dying

Magpies break the news,

their song the only sound

until bells chime

from a church

with padlocked doors.

Vicalvi is dying.

Careworn medieval town

shelters its diagnosis

behind persimmon trees,

grape vines,

a castle crown.

Vicalvi is dying.

Realization slips in

like gray hair,

like crows’ feet.

Crumbling walls,

creeping vines,

feral cats.

Villagers turn their backs

as tourists pass.

Mother Mary watches

from her weathered shrine,

arms outstretched.

Leave a Comment