On the bridge parapet sits a girl who reads
against a misplaced blue-lagoon background
while the Oltrarno and the Historic Center swap
tourists turned hostages of their own accord.
Pictures are taken, pictures are thrown
of the lady on the red boat with a parasol,
it all feels like a fake Modigliani's work,
like those sculpted heads from long ago.
A crisp dry air bites into people's skin,
their souls pierced by Florence's sharpest charm
escape their bodies and blend in,
corrupting everything the eyes can't see.
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