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Death March Just keep walking. That seemed to be the general idea of those around me. Beaten,
bloody, and determined to go on we walked. Some, with fate on their side, were not
aimlessly marching to their death while many, myself included, were searching for
something you can't see. Looking around fruitlessly for we knew it could not be found.
Many appeared to find what they were searching for as they hit the ground, face gray and
eyes lifeless. Many more died with the searching expression still clinging to their
features. The ones with fate on their side seemed distant to us in the death march as they
had no reason to look about them for the answer to their mortality. As I looked about I
wondered if the search was truely fruitless for all. Whether the ones who thought they
found it really did. As I staggered and bled and searched some more I saw
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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