My Rome, Now Gone

Gone is my mother,
Never to return as I knew her.
Gone are the glory days of my Rome,
For tragedy has fallen, taken ill my dear garden.

The trees we took from pots and tended to with labored breaths, wither in mourning.
Their roots weep silently beneath compact soils,
Sacrificing holy waters, depleting their source of life,
In misery of losing the sun.

Their leaves, once plump and vivid, now shrivel,
Quiver solemnly at the sighs of my lamented wails,
In recollection of how we dug, shovels kneading,
Into the ground to plant the sea of flowers.

How I peeked out the window after Earth's hibernation,
To see the splendor that was our sacred land, our little garden of Eden,
And called out to Mother in rosy joy, "The lilies have bloomed!"
And, Mother, oh Mother, smiling with that sweet-smelling sound of "oh really?"

How she and I stepped into our garden,
Inhaled the first taste of Spring, and beamed at each other.
She was beautiful,
She was life.

And now, now we wilt in death,
For she is just a statue,
A print upon the center of that backyard,
Of our golden age, our Rome.