Waking up on the sea I cast a look in your direction
Your mountains whispered of history, tugging me
compelling me to seek the center, to find a beating heart.
Leaving the port city your roads began to narrow
Harrowed, cliff-side was a graveyard of rusted cars
as I edged skyward toward new views.
History lesson one, done, pay attention through and through.
Leaving Corte, headed south with a belly full of biscuits
my going lacked quickness, yet frothed with high spirits
peaks in clouds, scenic, venturing further into your past
I sense it, flowers getting help with courtship
from the breeze and bumblebees.
Sap leaking from the pine trees tickling my nostrils
until the fresh rain saturates the day
atop another summit, wilderness enthralling.
History lesson two, done, keep the wild blooming.
I found myself in shelter from your thunder
inside a restaurant without power
unsure if it ever even had any…
The grey light shone through the tiny window
a room with 10 wooden chairs, a man and his hearth
sitting by warmth, dozing off as the world turns
No conversation, just the water hitting the roofs
the sky rumbling like falling boulders, sounding violence.
History lesson number three, done, appreciate a storm in silence.
I’ve almost come and gone… I haven’t found your beating heart…
Just the hearts of your creatures and peoples,timeless.
History is a book that is being written
But, Corsica, your history is in thebeating heart this wild island.
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