A question mark, a parenthesis on the map where the borders are woven in spider web. Muggia is the border of all, the border of sea and land border at a hundred paces from here. Border unstable and volatile and grim at the same time, dripping with history at every meter and I am not all stories that you want to remember.
And in the heart - or maybe in the liver - Muggia, here is the port as a comma in a comma, a hiccup in the line of the coast, rebuked the walled white stone, where s'appendono flags made with garbage bags. Shrouds playing in the wind, trees swaying flickering.
Muggia is a tissue in a tissue: a comma in the enclave Trieste, quotation marks already in itself.
A question mark, a parenthesis on the map where the borders are woven in spider web.
Muggia is the border of all, the border of sea and land border at a hundred paces from here. Border unstable and volatile and grim at the same time, dripping with history at every meter and I am not all stories that you want to remember.
And the houses: the houses combed upward, riddled with windows as crevices, color by time and discolored by the sun, like peeling frescoes and painted ladies as the afternoon festivities.
The Cathedral lines busty, the square like a sigh, the streets huddled around the harbor, walk slowly, looking on.
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