These bricks have felt the sun rise under Caesar
those walls across the valley glistened then
some eyes some hands have planned and planted trees here
and poets sang the song I sing again.
Each inch of land and every inch an atom
has been directed to its certain use
and this for olives, that for grapes is planted
and so it’s always been ’til bees refuse.
The bear so far away sleeps locked in winter
and forests lakes and rivers clad in ice
but in this valley years flash by in minutes
and Caesar’s entourage slept here last night.
My song is done, the valley lies in evening;
and in the dark hear Caesar’s heart still beating.