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.
