Ships ride in Syracusa’s harbour
a couple of hundred metres below.
The amphitheatre, seating twenty thousand,
is a monolith carved from the limestone hill.
Behind us a natural fountain pours.
Near it is a square hole cut in the rock.
Shaped by design like the auditory
canal and tympanum of the human ear
this slave-made cleft in the limestone, some
forty feet high, echoes with the babel
of snatched arias and football songs.
At the entrance,