Camposanto is beautiful and still, imbued with a serenity you don't find in many places in this world. You almost wish you could stay there, if only it weren't a cemetery.
Its name, which means Holy Land, is quite literal: the Crusaders brought a shipload of sacred soil from Golgotha to Pisa, and upon it the place was built.
It is cool in the cloister, a welcome respite from the unforgiving summer heat, the best place for introspection.
Some of the memorial stones are impersonal and subdued, some elaborately carved to show the likeness and interests of the deceased, but all of them are inscribed with a few Latin words carved in stone, brief messages sent through time.
This collection of tombstones constitutes the pavement of the graceful edifice, and there is no way to walk through it other than stepping on them.
I spent a few moments trying to read the dates on the stones, written in Roman numerals, baffled that the older looking tombs were new and the newer, old.
I didn't want to find out if there was anyone still resting under those stones, because the thought of walking on graves gives me pause, and yet, in a strange way, I don't remember feeling such a deep peace anywhere else.