In ancient Eturia, the Etruscans became like the Moon
The shores of Lake Nemi at the Sanctuary of the Goddess of Diana,
The strega called down the full moon
Moonbeams merging into lake waters
Inflowing into her flesh, blood and bones
Garlanded with ivy and rue,
The priestesses danced, weaved a spiral
Circle in the Beech Tree Grove
They were a people of mystery
With a language lost, an unknown history,
Were they descended from ancient mariners, the Phoenicians?
Refugees fleeing the tumult of Atlantis,
Nomads from the last Ice Age?
Were they always there?
Native to the Italian Peninsula
No one really knows
Their dominion spanned one thousand years
They worked magic in the Tuscan hills
Ahead of their times, their wisdom and skill
The arch, vault, aqueduct – their creations
In the Smithsonian Museum, their pottery and coinage displayed
In trade and commerce they prospered well
Etruscan amphora found as far as Thrace, Sycthia and Gaul
Bloodlust, gladiators fighting to their death,
Replaced music and dancing at their banquets
Reliant on slaves, to do their bidding, idle, neglectful
They became Romanized
Accepted the Latin language as their own
Their own tongue was soon forgotten
Still, their dialect cannot be spoken
The year of 662 AD, in the town of Benevento,
The holy walnut tree was felled by Papal decree
Today, close to the site of older roots,
At a sidewalk café, villagers converge,
Sip on the liquor native to the town
To honor the dead with libations
In Tuscany, in Florence, the Renaissance was born
Ghiberti, Bruneschelli, Donnatello, DaVinci – the great masters
Kindling old knowledge – art and culture manifested
Paintings, sculpture, architecture - their strivings
Stand in testament to Sacred Geometry – to think beyond
Limitation – invoking the magic of the mind
Spirits of the Land enticing art and artisan:
DH Lawrence, Lord Byron, Mary Shelley – all sought to reclaim
Eturia’s wisdom once again