The Via Della Pace rolls easily by,
But the pace is occasionally frenetic.
Bright colored dresses,
Flowers and such,
Fast paced words,
That are difficult to follow,
For a stranger in a strange land.

Monte Berico gazes down on it all,
One hundred eighty three steps away.
Red tiled cathedral,
Perched all alone,
Walking by with my friends,
In the rain.

Theatro Olympico,
A work of art,
From somewhere in a Roman past.
Pillars of marble,
Productions of marvel,
As players take the stage.

A birra at Septembre's,
And then a stop at Johnny's,
Two doors down to see the nun.
A long walk home,
And calzone on the way,
A perfect end to a perfect day,
Is simply a cappucino with friends.

We ran through the streets
With boots on our feet,
Singing a soldier's song.
Signorinas on the balconies,
Wave hello,
As we dream of private moments.

Thirty years ago,
But it hardly seems so,
In my memory which is so clear.
I hear their voices,
And the honking horns;
The trains as they pull into the station.
But most of all,
As I recall,
It is the smells that I remember today.