the streets lined with individually
uniquely beautiful ancient architecture
that stands tall, remaining as they
were meant to be seen, uncomplimented
by the 21st century age of fickle fashion.
they, pleasantly compacted and divided
by walls of tall shadows sing of history,
telling stories of time past
in a language of love.
the little old lady, accompanied
only by the memory of her passed husband,
is disrupted peace by the loudness and mishap
of what would be the age of her
disrespectful grandchildren,
as we prance the streets thinking we bring
something of value to this already developed culture
that does infact go on well after we leave.
i speak softly- ashamed
that i con not return proper comunication
and understanding to those who have seen
no other life than that of italy.