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Tania Sep 12
Rainy Italy
Where a heavy, red door flies
Enjoying the rock.
Chris Saitta Aug 9
These clouds of Italy are grown on vines,
Infidels of skies, fruit bearers of wine-veined
Marble, fertile in spite of its own lifeless tableau,
Here thrives the succulent garden of the alone,
Where turns aside the burnt nape of the plowman,
Voyager of the cool midnight seas of the mind,
Up to this arable vine of sighs from outworn gods,
And hears his heart once more give up its throne.
Sometimes, I'm annoyed at you.
Sometimes, I'm disappointed in you.
And sometimes...
I adore you.

I don't know what it is about you.
Your seemingly undying loyalty?
The flowers on Valentinstag?
Or... something else?

You haven't changed at all,
Grandson of Rome.
You were timid and weak back then,
And even now still.

You were never a good soldier,
But that has never mattered.
For you will always be
My dear Hetalia.
Hetalia: A portmanteau combining "hetare", a Japanese word meaning useless or pathetic (in a cute or endearing way) and "Italia", Japanese for Italy. Also the name of an anime and manga by Hidekaz Himaruya, "Hetalia: Axis Powers".

A short poem for one of my favourite Hetalia ships, GerIta (Germany/Italy). In the perspective of Germany.
Lieber Italien: German for "Dear Italy"
Valentinstag: German for "Valentine's Day".
Chris Saitta May 27
A vintner of aged leaves in the wine-press of the sun,
Thin-skinned like the lucent grapes from the vine-runs
Of the island trellises and teal-cordoned waves, lowest slung
Fruit-laden bough of sky, Sicily, whose ateliers of rolled cigarettes
And uprolled sleeves like tides tease smoke into studio paints,
The black apple wine of storm made into mouthfuls of pulp rain,
Before the sunrise is gathered again in fishing nets and crab pots,
The coastal towns with their salted roofs of pied clay and pigeons
Along the lava stone streets, and night from the chanteuse of Egypt,
Singing her coral to heron, as when her bird-like barefooted slaves
Left tracks across Old Kingdom wastes, so this dreaming old man
Leaves his wrinkles to these grapes and across the sand-island pillow,
Asleep with his fathers, hay-hauling peasants of wandering darkness.
Atelier is simply an artist’s studio.
Tap, tap, tap...

Is that the sound of paws on stone
Or dripping blood?
I might never know.

I didn't think this would happen.
I didn't think
She would actually snap.

Flagship Littorio had always been
Suspicious about her.
"You can't trust the Germans," she'd always say.

Looking around at the blood-stained walls,
I wish I'd listened to her earlier
And not told her she's just being paranoid.

I wonder how much longer
This massacre will last.

I wonder if I'll even live
To see the end.

I want to call for help,
But I know no one will answer.

I have nowhere to run,
Nowhere to hide.

Nowhere is safe
From those hungry white eyes.

The tapping is getting louder.
The scraping is getting closer.
Whether that's claws or bone, I don't want to know.

Something drips onto my fur.
Something warm and red.
The blood of my allies.

I look up slowly,
Trying not to let my fear show.

And all I see is red.
an alternate universe where bismarck massacres the other iron empery fleets.
of course she wouldn't actually do that, co-captain mars is always there to keep her under control when captain kaslana is away.

poem in the perspective of rn carabiniere

i have nothing against germans or germany, but since bismarck is based on a ww2-era warship i thought it would kinda make sense to have her be the antagonist for this

not very good at the whole "gory murdery horror" stuff but i hope this is ok!
Arkapravo Apr 6
Laffing is the best medicine,
Alas, not always life saving!
Arkapravo Apr 6
What fun is life, if it doesn't end,
A virus with no ways for a mend,
Time for sorrows to blend,
A moment for the universe, less for man to lend!
tapioca Apr 2
The olives are black and ripe.

Black beads scrutinise me, smiling
With a bitter aftertaste that I know I won’t like,
But my dad loves.
Four olives, then three, then two,
And little fingers reach out for the plucked fruit.

Yellowy syrup soaks into fluffy clouds of ciabatta
Like the warmth of the sun seeping into tiny cracks in the road;
I remember the story of Athena’s olive tree and
I think I should call her Minerva because I’m in Italy.
Two identities for the same person.
I find that strange.

Picking the thinly sliced fruit from my food,
I grimace at the pattern of black spots on my plate.
The two colours mix in my vision and I know
It is ugly.
The sea glimmers just beyond my reach and the
Filtered beams of sunlight make me yellow.

****, sharp flavours pinch my tongue.
Thin arms suffocated by pustules of inky blackness cover my vision;
My father stands beside me, taking photos,
Although I’m not sure what he’s commemorating.
I see a group of Korean tourists.
They don’t recognise me.
I spit out the sour bead.
this is something i busted out in 15 minutes for school a couple of years ago. fun fun fun.
The Fortune's orange blush and light-gold face cross the pale-greeness of the stone decay. Though the crone vale and the mountains star-peaked high above, itself may rotten well, no loneliness resides in the Palace Divine; for among the chambers ruined and the bronzy-bluish of the Nile mosaic, her voice maternal, glorified; the Primordial Force, she echoes in the mind - not distant, but as if from a cloud. The Call is sweet and known from the Time when body was souless or soul bodiless, she cried: "Nature, Nature, take your part! Leave me strandless and light: I beg you; do let me be brave, alone and might! "
I wrote this after my university project on the sanctuary of Fortune in Praeneste
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