As long as the flying was over Florence,
things were fine:
certain facts, in Florence, are understandable,
are legitimate, and fit within in the logic of history.

But over Prato!
Over Prato where for centuries now
nothing miraculous had happened.
Not on the ground,
and not in the sky.
Especially not in the sky.

Yet here was Manissero flying in our sky,
in the neglected sky of Prato.
And he was flying, or so it seemed,
better than he might have flown in the sky of Florence.
Better than in any other sky in Tuscany!

After a moment, though, the suspicion began to grow
that he might fly as far as Pistoia.
Everyone held their breath,
balanced on one foot,
hearts stopped between beats:

The treacherous sky of Pistoia!