I went to the ocean today and I think you were there.
I felt you in the sand, in the wind blowing in my hair,
in the cry of seagulls searching for home.
When the Ides of March hit the earth in full force,
Does Caesar still dream of Cleopatra?
Still desire her, crave her, over the centuries?
Love lingers on lonely rocks and in decrepit ruins,
It hides in the pages of a book and on once-caressed armor standing in a museum,
and floats through the ages, a silent and lost lament.