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“.. beers as scripted, cigarettes at breakfast, in the square a guitar always plays the same song…”
Cross the Rome bridges and every time your gaze falls on the waters of the Tiber: it is not the Seine, it is not the Thames is only the Tiber, poetically called blond, for its dark and murky water that probably makes it less elegant than the others but… it is discreet and this makes the city perfect.
“… The blond Tiber is turned moor, Rome is more beautiful when I’m alone…”
The dome of St. Peter’s you see it from anywhere in Rome but you realize that you are getting closer and closer to her when she begins to notice in the crowd black tunics or white veils. Via della Concordia, it seems designed specifically to make the road to St. Peter’s Square sacred. Nothing around you, on this long road, can divert attention from the only square always broadcast in the worldvision.
I love when St. Peter’s Square becomes a golden man towards evening. I’d spend all my time seeing it light up and empty… the more beautiful she becomes, the more lonely she becomes, few turn back to admire her, no one will come back to look at her.
“… Gothing sky, I scream with my head under the waterand you look at me as if I have the exact answer
An old Mustang with a license plate that comes off Crowded street I let myself be swallowed by the cast…”
In Castel Sant’Angelo, there are still a lot of people. The sky is now octane, the Tiber is now gold, illuminated by the warm lights of bridges and streetlights.
“… Tiber looks like the ocean, we who live late at night and at the sea we dive into the bomb…”
We pass through the Ara Pacis, enclosed in its crystal case and we walk through Via Ripetta, where in progress there are already aperitifs that open on Saturday evenings. The gates are now active everywhere, the traffic is more intense, the people on the steps no longer speak English but Romanaccio, they no longer take selfies from tourists, but they drink Peroni.
Swollen feet, tired legs, again the hunger that is felt and a spritz too much that makes our heads lighter than our bodies. I lost count of the km, the hour count and maybe even 10 euros but it’s eight o’clock in the evening, it’s been raining for a while yet… at this hour Rome smells; Every day she goes on stage her show, always to play the same part, always to show herself beautiful and impeccable, despite often not being at all and now as an actress, after bowing, she melts her hair, takes off her makeup and stretches out to rest. Rome now simply smells of home.
“What bitterness Piazza Venezia
A co-racer stops at making the statuette (which went down)
Lead crack opens the dances, windshield
In the Tourist Holes in the carriage that slow
And the rain blocking the streets
The city of wolf is a turtle…”
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