Brancaleone Superiore, Calabria

Roofless houses stand open to the wind.

I sit on a low wall. Dust sticks to my shoes.
The air smells of damp earth.

The sun is low. Its last light falls across cracked walls and broken beams.

I wonder: how many lives passed through here. Celebrations. Arguments. Births. Deaths. Things people didn’t say out loud.

Only the stones remain. They don’t care.

A small yellow flower grows between them, leaning toward the light.

Nature takes the space back, slowly, without anger.