A poetic tourist itinerary of Bacoli
Come, come with me, I will take you with me to discover the magic of Miseno. It starts from …
Marina Piccola (literally “small marina”) at night
Last stop before returning home,
every night you entered the postcard
and took his place on a bench at the edge,
where the noise of the bowls persists.
One last breath of moisture,
with eyes fixed on the horizon
and heavy eyelids.
Rhythmic noise from the sea
of steel wires on the tree
of a few sailboats in the harbor,
under the influence of the slight pitch
sing a lullaby
accompanied by the slow ebb of the waves
and the tolling of a distant bell.
A look to the East
And it’s still early for dawn,
then I turn it listlessly to the North
to look for the parent star
to guide me to the door,
after greeting friends,
and it is peace.
Just a few hours of sleep and even before dawn we go…
Spiaggia Verde (Green Beach)
(Said of lovers)
On a small rowboat
I slipped away, carefree, over
the cliff of the marina.
I caressed the breeze in front of the ancient nymphaeum,
and I breathed magic while I stopped at anchor.
Lush caper plants
hanging on the tuff wall
they were reflected in the waters of the breast
giving emerald reflections.
In front, a rough pumice
saliva bristly, covered, here and there,
of agave and wild ferules
with spectacular floral plumes.
quivering with life, we dived
in the clear and lonely sea,
and then swim to the small beach
and lie in the sun on coarse sand.
Enchanted by the place, she fell in love with it,
breathing amenity, sense control disappeared,
and prisoners of love we surrendered.
We return to the sea, towards the west to finally arrive in a crossing back in time to…
When … Cala Moresca in summer
I went down the stairs carved in stone
and the dry smell of the tuff was still mixed
to the sweat of so many bony and capable hands.
Down we went, with foresight,
among dry bushes and lizards in the sun
in Dante’s circle,
up to grasp the unrivaled prize.
Only mine and a few close friends, he sets it down,
gave an enchanted backdrop,
white of a thousand venereal valves.
On the unrepeatable transparency of the waters,
I, still a child, watched them pass
the feared Saracen warriors, returning
from bloody raids.
and from Capri, a few strokes,
the air carried,
together with the screech of a gavina,
the melodic song of the Sirens.
Don’t be charmed, I said to myself,
it’s time to go back, and this time as a castaway,
a little Greek, a little Roman, a little Moor,
but still a hero, I swam and beached exhausted.
Instead, we continue on foot, starting the ascent of the promontory to find ourselves …
At the Miseno lighthouse
clouds like souls,
read follow the wind
and human passions.
Sitting on the ridge
dear to me from youth
I wait for the first drops
wet with blue
one with my sea,
my story and the saline
of my knowledge,
I feel soul.
We stop, tired but happy, there is still a lot to discover, maybe we will do it in the future, now, from up here, we can enjoy paradise or something similar!
Written by: Rino Costigliola
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