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When I was little, I always hated the castle walls. They were sixty horses high and four hundred carts wide (or so they seemed at the time), and they prevented me from going out to see the real world. Well, that paired with the fact that Mother and Father had given strict orders to the guards not to let me outside the palace limits. But, oh, how I wanted to see the market place, what with all its stands and shops and the wares their owners sold. And the people! All the people I'd heard about from my tutors and the books they made me read; peasants, they called them. I wasn't allowed outside until I was old enough to handle myself (along with guards, of course, and a chaperone), though, and there would be no wavering on that point. At twelve years old my time would come; that was how long my grandmother's mother had waited, my mother's mother, and my mother.
So, instead, I spent my time in the library, dreaming of the outside world and what lay beyond the stone fortre
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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