La colonna della peste

I stand beneath the Colonna della Peste, not as a spectator, but as a witness to times cruel irony a monument carved in grief, yet crowned with gold, standing tall against the sky like a silent, solemn promise. Behind me, the spires of Santi Vito rise, ancient and watchful, their Gothic bones whispering of prayers offered in fear and hope. I am here, in this bustling square where modern cars scrape the cobblestones like forgotten pilgrims, and I ask myself: what does it mean to remember the dead when the living rush past, oblivious? The plague column, a monument to deaths grip, now stands as a beacon of resilience its figures, once mourning, now guarding the very life they once lost. I gaze up, and I feel the weight of centuries pressing on my shoulders not just stone, but memory, sorrow, and the stubborn, defiant will to survive. Is this a monument to the past? Or is it a plea to the future? I touch the cool bronze, and I wonder: what does it feel like to be a statue, standing still while the world moves? I am here, not to be seen, but to be felt a quiet, sacred pause in the chaos of existence, a reminder that even in the darkest hours, we rise, we endure, we remember.

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