Red music under blue skies,
The streets shone white.
The autumn leaves fell
As we remembered our marching days.
Boots crackled on leaves in the high country
Where blazes marked the graves of our comrades.
I followed the path of the moon
To my love's home.
The war left us with the winter
And a retreat on the lake.
We made our beds together,
Dreaming of marriage.
A carabineri killed my love.
Above Pisan where the river finds its source.
- written 2002; revised 2016