The boiling sun beaming off of the vibrant multicolored fruits, resting on the wooden boxes in the middle of a typical Sunday afternoon marketplace. The smell of freshly picked flowers being sold for only 2 euros. a wide variety of pasta I never even knew existed. Items being thrown into my bag by bargainers who don’t take no for an answer. the warm ancient cobblestone beneath my feet where millions of people have walked before me.

The smell of aged wine and cheese being savored by tourists who wonder what it’s like to live in such luxury. The tall apricot colored buildings with their rustic walls and tall wooden doors. Ivory colored sheets hanging from cords hung from house to house, flower pots lounging on windowsills bathing in the heat.  restaurants overflowing with people who speak identical foreign accents. The chromatic handmade plates that sit in front of me, my food not worthy of its foundation. The spherical designs surrounding the plate in ombre, such beauty in something so ordinary.

The sun falls as the moon rises and invites the stars to dance in the sky. The air is humid and soft. Music playing at each corner, different varieties of songs and performances. The clanking sound of boots against the pavement as the night life comes rolling in. Restaurants lighting candles smelling of fruits, couples sitting by the fountains hopelessly in love. The street lights, a faint yellow color. Flower pots lined up at every doorstep, with green plants growing from the center. children sitting at door steps with different flavors of gelato, heaven in a cup. The hot pink raspberry or the light green pistachio, everyone having their own distinct flavors that make you addicted.  

The sound of laughter coming from cafes and populated sidewalks. The sound of stores closing, of the last cup of coffee being made for the last customer of the day. The thin roads that cars barely fit through, where chairs and tables are always set up. The rustle and bustle of people walking by, cultured artists, teachers, doctors, husbands, wives, sons and daughters. Touching the walls of the homes that have stood their for ages. The smell of cigarettes being smoked by adolescents who wouldn’t be allowed to do the same back in the Unites States. The feeling of freedom, the warm and comfortable feeling of freedom. Flickering lights as the guitarist plays his last song, tourists make their way back to their hotels and citizens walk 2 feet to their doorstep.

This poem is about: 
Our world


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