My heart used to recognise a place

The way eyes know themselves when the mirror shows it’s face

Time has left it’s mark, like a grave

The smells on the wind don’t feel quite the same

The fools have flatten the hills to make roads

The trees have been made into billowing loaves

Pungent egos hang like coat-hanger souls

The stench of the smartarses clots the windows

Springs don’t sing for the deaf

Players play til whistles the ref

Eyes on the back of what’s said

Dreams are for those now dead

My heart used to recognise a place

The way eyes know themselves when the mirror shows it’s face

Time has left it’s mark, like a grave

The smells on the wind don’t feel quite the same

That home has melted, as Spring does snow,

Tourists walk through the ruins and go,

Scholars will learn and shall know,

“There once was a dream,

that was Rome”