And the radio plays
After Italy, there was nothing.
Only fog, black earth, white frost, and among the clods, only the worms continued to eat the rotten flesh.
Every dead Italian was buried by the sea that rose from the highway, sweeping away churches and houses.
No more big supermarkets, no more new restaurants, no more art or beauty. Only mud and old stones, and in the air over the debris, sadness lingered.
A torn state, erased from every map, begged for salvation.
And it was dark on the earth, and it was night after centuries of artificial light, and it was dark over the sea.
In a lost palace, in an immense skyscraper that, a survivor, still stands, vain, against time, in a deserted attic, closed against the open sky, there is a radio.
That radio is still on, and it broadcasts an eternal sound.