The light from the orange curtain
fills the room
as we sleep in the heat of summer.
Echoes of footsteps ring in the narrow vicoli below,
continuous and unchanged.
Other people’s voices linger in the afternoon,
like lost memories.
The reflection now absent
from the gilt mirror,
The moment gone.
The room again empty,
the linens crisp, the floors polished,
Awaiting yet another guest,
Before the inevitable silence.
Ewa Monika Zebrowski