Have you ever sat, in an evening vaporetto, on the Giudecca Canal?
In the morning, these boats, had been running like rats, through their delivery party.
And gradually, the city had filled with noise and busy disorder, all together, in a golden Arch of faith, in the name of Saint Mark, up to the hugeness of ruling together in a Palace.
Was it the bright shine, of Veronese’s pink and green, in June’s midday?
Was it the soft memory of the Queen of Cyprus along a canal?
Or maybe Tintoretto, guiding you through illness, faithfully beyond doubt to understanding?
More probably, a lot hiding behind selfie-masks and the wreck of the unbelievable…
Coming out of the deep maze, and suddenly, to the last sun rays rimming the waves, here she is, appearing, the mysterious cloth of your experience, woven of gold, from the abyss of forgotten.