Dante hated Florence,
called it dark and dreary
and was driven out of it
and robbed of all his life,
his family and home and riches
like by some step-mother cruelty,
and somehow I agree:
there always was some latent madness there,
a deadly threat to creativity,
to the dynamic positive expansion,
to the craving freedom of the mind
and always violent reactions.
I was never quite at home there
but felt pressed by the imposing splendour
of the only capital of arts there still is in the world.
Respectfully I keep my distance
leaving her in peace like a museum
and prefer to keep my distance
only as a passer-by, not to disturb
or wake up all those monsters of the past.