The earth-dark octaves of her singing hair,
Sung-circles of campagna, the citadel,
And campanile bells in the Segestano air.
The pail sits like an expectant kiss on the lip of the well.

I want to go home  
I hate this feeling  
I don't want to do this  

I really wish I weren't me

It would be a lie to say I feel invisible
I feel painfully seen and ignored