The clouds have an almost spiritual quality today,
lying low like a blanket pulled up and pressing down,
hoarding the character and color of the sun, at least until now,
until this hour.
It is the end of the day. The suns rays can finally slip under the western edge,
casting themselves as an almost horizontal plane that will illuminate in brilliant moments
those same adjacent and still shadowed walls,
in rusts and yellows and lavenders.
It is nowhere else but Rome.