My town is a small town

that sleeps upon an ancient hill

and overlooks a thousand gentle hills

that stretch towards the Tyrrhenian Sea,

or towards the Arno, or deep into the Sienese woods.

Its inhabitants are old houses

with rooms painted in vivid colours.

Outside, however, they are all of one colour,

yellow like the stone of the Etruscans,

the walls, the gates and the tombs.

They greet one another in the street, calling each other by name:

— Hello, Franco!

— Hello, Sandro!

— Hey, how are you, Vittorio?

— No, that’s not Vittorio, it’s his son. Vittorio is dead…

— I’m sorry.

— It’s already been six years.

— How time flies!

And yet, no. Here time does not flow,

it moves slowly, so slowly

that sometimes it seems to want to stop,

to give, once again,

breath to the ashes hidden

within the yellow stones.