From blackened Ravenna to Catholic Vienna,
Christendom attends the news as it’s read
with a levity common to cherubs, who sing
“At ease, Captain Vatican, Fellini is dead!”
But Peter himself would film the event
(with young Guido as gaffer, eager in the wing)
when, long millennia hence, through which you’d repent
for parading poor Pope Pius through Rome
in an impious frock, mocking his holy throne,
you’d be pardoned by all of redeemed Europa,
accompaniment by Nino Rota.
The twelve would greet you (minus one makes eleven)
from aloft as you made your way into Heaven,
where portly papists paw their bambini
and Rembrandts render your beloved Rimini.
In memoriam Federico Fellini.
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