Fusilli, born of southern light,

Curves like a dance,
spirals through the night.

Her taste, a delight,
her warmth so bright,

Yet he, unknowing, lost her in haste.

With rough hands, her essence slipped away,

A lesson learned too late, in disarray.
For hands unwise can turn gold to dust,

Now he watches, regret a quiet trust.

Some loves, like pasta, require time to rise,

A truth revealed beneath the southern skies.