Luscious lemons in your silky hair waving as you saunter down the gilted avenue. From my seat, all buckling unsturdy, your redlovely lips upon pearl face gaze my way. The old women on wooden tables kneading their Orecchiette with daughters all drawn and hasty. Brahmana passing by in tight little groups. Proverbs whispered from sealed lips. The Sun near the Gondolas passing en plein air. Pigeons splayed upon the etherized Sky all-atwitter with thought. And I see you passing through the marketsquare: afire with meadowsweet dress. The violins quivering a crescendo of Baroque notes as you turn a sorrowful glance, but, alas, it's lost in the crowd.