gilding the dust
falling on those uneven cobblestones
heat
of a dreary, tourist-filled august noon
pulses from the walls
scorching every inch
of visible skin
great men have passed this way
while the earth bloomed with youth
walk by the roadside bazaar
and you can
reach the depths of the past
how the unfeeling white stone
had yielded under their firm yet loving touch
like a wanton lover
''here lie the body of il Magnifico's children''
the tour guide says offhandedly
" died young. all of them.
come gentlemen.
more Donatello this way."
regret hangs in the air
in that old florentine chapel
where spirits of another time
walk and breathe today
looking at us looking at them
and finding nothing there
except a whisper
the air is pregnant
with that same little sigh
as i remember
standing in the halo
of swirls of gilded dust
children of another sun
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