Where do we go when it’s all over–this grand play we call life? All good things come to an end, that’s what they say, but what if it isn’t good, what happens then? Is there peace for the downtrodden? A place to rest their weary heads? If life is a tragedy, what is death? Can it be a happy ending? So many questions, so little answers. Time is the word I’m missing. In this place, it is neverending.
I visited Keats’ and Shelley’s graves today in Rome’s Protestant Cemetery. It’s a beautiful site, plush with flowers, trees and amazing gravestones inscribed with heart wrenching final sentiments from those left behind. I bought this book of poems from the minuscule bookshop on site. It’s written in Italian and the ‘original English’ and includes poems from both poets, a fitting publication for friends whose bond extends beyond the grave. Rome is a mess of sound. I’ll wait to read it in the peace and quiet of London.