Listening to Respighi’s song cycle based off of the writing of Shelley.
It is Italy. Not of the places for tourists but of nature being observed and felt by those not born here, which is often how an area is more fully appreciated. There are swells and undulating waves of sound. It is all lushness but with something dark just under the surface.
The most beautiful flowers smell the strongest, near on cloying, as they start to die.
Shelley reclining on the deck of his little boat, a copy of Keats in his hand.
The sun shines down, the same ocean which is now a vast tapestry of shimmering jewels will, upon embracing him, turn a singular dark blue as his waterlogged jacket.
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