Petals fall—some caught on tattered velvet,
others brushing against chiffon before scattering on the streets of Arles.
But the lingering fragrance remains,
I lift my dress to my nose and inhale for a moment,
Is this scent from the South of France, or is it from the flowers? I cannot say.

The touch is cool, devoid of any summer heat,
I imagine it's the wind from Tuscany,
silently entwining with the fabric after meeting in the height of summer.

When Elizabeth David returned from Southern Europe,
she captured the essence of her culinary experiences in "A Book of Mediterranean Food."
Architect Karl Friedrich Schinkel gathered bricks from Southern Europe,
and built a paradise of the South in Germany.

As for me, all I need to do is open my wardrobe,
where the fragrance of flowers greets me,
a gentle breeze stirs,
and effortlessly, I once again take in the entirety of you.

In this city, time dissolves.

There is no before, no after—

only the things that refuse to age.

The icons of fashion that stand untouched by noise or years:

a heavy, sequined Roberto Cavalli gown

igniting under the spotlight—

La Dolce Vita, made flesh.

A violet Gucci top from Fall/Winter 2006,

a Blumarine leopard-print skirt from Fall/Winter 2003,

threads of gold and silver catching the glimmer

of starlight tossed across the Tiber.

And the diamond-strap Gucci heels from 1996—

satin lost in a haze of purple light,

slipping into a dream beside the Trevi Fountain,

where wishes float just beneath the surface.

I wake in the newly restored Hotel La Minerva,

embraced by veins of red-brown marble.

I dress in a Blumarine fur-trim backless top

and a lace skirt from Spring/Summer 1998,

my steps cushioned by satin Dolce & Gabbana tie-up sandals,

each cameo glinting like a keepsake from another lifetime.