I think of Rome in summertime,
Flipping through the gloss on photographs.
The bright colors, green, yellow, orange, blue
The clumps of roses carried near you.
Faces that you passed,
Will always smile in your photographs.
A crowd of stories, friends, and conversations,
A collage of colors on your wall.
But they are just shadows after all–
Flash moments of real peoples lives,
Printed onto printing paper.
And you can not help but wonder
How or where they ended up.
And if they made the most of life, til now–
Eating, talking, sleeping sound,
Falling in love.
The violinist on that street in Rome,
The middle-aged friar in his brown robe.
The rose peddlers near the Spanish Steps
Or that gold haired girl in Venice,
chasing pigeons.