Sonetto

I dream of nice soft air, that brings to me,

The sweet and tender sighs of the flowers,

Hinting at some far-off green gallery,

Alive, filled with little pastel towers,

Glorious sun-soaked petals do sway,

In the warm and lazy afternoon breeze,

I could bask in this golden light of day,

List’ning to the wind rust’ling through the trees,

Sapphires would bleed out into the clear sky,

And the clouds would be of abalone,

Iridescent, beautiful, and all mine,

Pillowy opals, floating around, free,

But the weary concrete is creeping in,

I awake, in a city built of sin.