The uninvited tempest raged through
Your narrow, age-worn cobbled streets;
Poseidon’s wrath unleashed at last,
Alas – on shore benign, on town genteel.
The haven for Crusaders wounded,
Your healing grounds now ravaged
By seething, midnight blue waves unsettled,
Wrapped by Medea’s writhing seaweed hair.
Yet, the waters shall soon recede,
Restored to golden Adriatic aqua blue,
The last festering wounds cleansed,
Broken hearts mended, desponded souls revived.
Salty air, spiced with cypress and pine trees,
Shall caress and sooth my frayed nerves again,
Soft breezes from the Serenissima across the bay
Shall gently sway the masts, rocking me to sleep.
Piran, the secret mistress of Venetians,
A patient lover from unremember’d past lives,
Will your spire shine bright on top the ancient hill
While Venice drowns in her own metropolitan decay?
May your mighty pyres blaze high,
May the Michaelic spear pierce
Through the darkest night with force divine
To guide us through the swamps of misty ghosts.
May your unshaken stones, the gnarly roots
Of dark green pines, ground me;
Undefeated, you survive, remain unblemished,
The unwavering beacon for weary wanderers.
An Ode to Piran ©Marta Stemberger
(inspired by the floods in September of 2010)
Piran, Slovenia, is an old quaint town in the Northern Adriatic, just across from Venice. The photo was taken by my husband Phil Smith when we were visiting Slovenia in May of 2009.