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Roman Holiday
In Rome I sat on the Spanish Steps, a hot day
in august 1961, in front of me a fountain
Fontana Di Trevi, its water looked cool and
inviting and I idly wondered if old Bernini,
the great artist, had had a hand in designing
this one too. I didn’t really want to sit there,
but one is supposed to when in Rome, beside,
the pope had gone on his holiday. It would
have be better to find cool bar and drink cold
beer; come to think of it beer wasn’t as cold
back then as it is now, and ice in once drink,
was still a novelty. Must have fallen asleep,
when awoke I was alone and in my upturned
cloth-cap coins gleamed in ancient moonlight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem