Another cigarette butt falls through the Sampietrini.
Distinct in this layer of compressed time,
a sprinkling of modern vice layered over the ancients.
Stepping out in Rome is knowing the bodies of the past
lie beneath, tucked up in stone and lime,
elemental traces of bones and flesh, take form in high art.
Reclaimed marbles stand proudly in temples and palazzi
as millions navigate little streets
to wonder at the old minds that imagined such human grandeur.
The form is perfection. Mathematically miraculous,
contrived so that head and feet
appear in perfect perspective as they hover above mere mortals.
Sitting at tables, nibbling on puff pastry and olives,
we take another sip of Prosecco and gird our loins
for more, to jostle the crowds and drink in more impossible history.
As evening descends and laneways glow with yellow light,
people crowd in to fill the fountain with coins.
And underneath the trashy, trodden paths, old Romans lie sleeping.
About the Creator
Michèle Nardelli
I write...I suppose, because I always have. Once a journalist, then a PR writer, for the first time I am dabbling in the creative. Now at semi-retirement I am still deciding what might be next.
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