Tendering to the truth, my fingers move to the musical notes,

light years in their length along the keyboard keys.

as steams of faint lines illuminating temples in sound,

holy places of design:

drums, horns, and strings sounding high and low along the way.

Walking in the steps of others before,

even with those marching in the thunder of wars,

and the holy echoes from graves.

My fingers tap out the beat, passing among the years,

like seed of plants, abounding along the cliff and rocks

Oh, my Manarola!

The rainfall covers the air together with the sea-mistings

sculpturing the coastal mountains, along the way, with the fragrances

from lemon and olive trees

releasing the perfumes from beached pigments,

rose-madder, virgin-olive

cobalt blue-violet, lime-mist green

sparking red dots of light

coloring the music,

upon my ear from the inside.