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My chalky-grey stones, coned with snow,
murmur melodies of folk songs
within my walls, soaked into my pores.
Each row leans in, balanced like cake layers,
whispers village gossip, Puglian spies.
From dawn ants march in sun-sizzle.
Green shoots creak through scorched earth.
Cool gravel crunches under trips of drunken feet,
star-sparks fire laser pulses. Wrought-iron gates whine
with the weight of stagger-swagger.
Blurred love-calls push against the breeze.
Car engines boom over chocolate fields,
disturb snoring farmers and livestock.
Dogs snap mean across shadowy groves,
leaf-drop echoes through shutters.
Bedded in black velvet, the hum of cosmic dust
seduces. Souls of the beloved wait for you,
just beyond sleep. Crickets offer prayers
for them all night, insect monks,
offering steady, patient presence.