The rain ceased, and with our spirits and bellies, <br />Full of Rome, our voices of the world danced across <br />The room loud and clean. <br />Art is recalled, the music, the history. <br />With our own gestures we described all we have seen. <br />Our global language of laughter piqued. <br /> <br />Then the familiar peal of storm took another majestic bow over our roof, <br />Ceasing our words straight from our mouths. <br />Even if we spoke over nature’s growl, <br />Our own ghost wouldn’t hear us. <br /> <br />It was a deep, slow cry which seemed to command <br />From all corners of Rome. It was chaste. <br />Direct. Too majestic to be deluded <br />By any music of city songs. <br /> <br />The silverware shiver under the low tremor of heaven <br />Which penetrated into our flesh, gripping our stomach, <br />And thrusting it up, next to our hearts. <br />All of Rome trembled from under us, <br /> <br />Stirring awake two rival artists <br />Michelangelo and Raphael by the pulse <br />Of light bathing Rome, exposing her long <br />Enough for us all to witness the fresh marble riches <br />Glowing outside our restaurant window.<br /><br />Masiela Lusha<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/roma-iii/
