No, undoubtedly that's not an easy task:
there are the waves, neverending strips
full of luxury like golden necklaces,
there's the strong breezee, as fresh and pure
as the Madonna's mantle in the church;
and the sand, ready to be melted
to make precious Murano chystal pots,
and the Moroccan king, richly dressed
in purple robes costing ten euros,
and there's Francesca, who needs only
five more centimeters of femor bones
to be appointed to Miss Italia's crown.
have mercy of a poor wretched poet:
how could he ever be able to express
such an incomparable beauty?