Roman Holiday

Roman Holiday

In the hush of a Tuscan dawn,
the city wakes from ancient slumbers,
street‑lamps flicker on the cobbles like amber stars.
The Tiber rolls, silver‑lined, an old cousin’s lullaby
serenading the papal palaces.

The film unfurls – a faint, sepia‑soft dream,
Audrey, a bright‑sparkled child of Rome,
Mark’s inquisitive boy peering through a museum’s vast doorway.
They waltz on the arcades of Piazza Navona,
their footsteps echoing in the marble’s plain chorus.

They taste the empire in every bite of gelato,
a swirl of pistachio against the city’s dust.
They toast with sparkling prosecco, a wine‑laden chuckle,
and the night drifts them into the Vatican’s quiet cathedral,
where time slows to a whispered verse.

We watch the sun descend behind the Colosseum,
as the world seems to hold its breath;
the sky an artist’s canvas, the Rome of a child
burning bright with possibility.

The days fade like the old studio’s lights,
but the memory lingers, like a worn print of “Romulus”,
a line of soft silver in the very seams of our dreams,
eternal, like the evening tempests that still echo
through the corridors of the Old Latin.

So let the “Roman Holiday” be a lullaby,
of silver moon over marble,
a bittersweet promise that the city will always call
you back through timeless avenues,
into a new dawn that she has never left.