Holy City – a poem

Rome.
The home
of saints
and pilgrims
shuffling in
their calfskin leather sandals
and russet robes
of righteousness.

While, down below,
barbarians still swarm
around your walls,
hoping for indulgences
and begging bread,
with trinkets lying
in the dirt
where all of us
can see their shame.

But still you let
the gilded chains
gleam bright around
your own fat neck.
You wear
your sordid affluence
with all the pride
a bloated whore
could ever hope to find.

And so I weep the Tiber
‘til the water runs
around your feet
yet you remain
unmoved.
All along, I knew
that my few tears
could never bring you
to your knees
and so it proved.

Copyright David Bastiani 2015

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About davidbastiani

I write words and sometimes they end up in the right order. I am the creator of Milo Peretti - Rome's newest private detective - and I'm currently working on my debut novel, The Colour of Weeping. I also write poetry. Sometimes I might let people read it. View all posts by davidbastiani

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