Atop the mountain we walk the path,
Up and down but not so fast.
Before our eyes the trees fall away,
to a quiet clearing on a quiet day.

"It is here where Caprara was",
the centre of their rural life.
A pub, a shop, a church, a square.
Somewhere so familiar it feels like home.

In the clearing we sit and talk,
a brief respite from our walk.
"It is here where the villagers danced".
Description so vivid it forms a trance.

See this place feels like a dream,
Quiet, sunny, beautiful, clean.
For those like you and me,
Caprara seems like an ideal place to be...

So why is it we have lost control?
So why is it so overgrown?
So why is it the villagers dance no more?
So why is it like life was never here?

Our thoughts are interrupted by a distant hum,
It is drawing nearer, bump by bump.
The man parks up and walks across
"Buongiorno. É questo il memoriale?".