Imagine you're part of a really good drum corps like Carolina Crown or Blue Devils. You're female so you can't be part of the cavaliers and you're sad. Every time you go to a competition you always make eye contact and smile at the cavaliers drum major. He does the same back. The season goes on and you don't talk till after finals. The after party of finals. "We have never actually talked but my name is ( insert name). You probably know that because they announce it every show. They don't announce every (section you're in) member. So what's your name?" He says. "(Your name). It's nice to meet you." You say with a smile. You end up talking the whole night and you get his number. It ends up both of you are aged out. You both end up working with the cavaliers the next season. Less than half way through the season you're dating. You both find out there is two openings at a school near where you both love. You both get the jobs. A few years later ( like 2) you both are still working with the cavaliers and the high school. At DCI finals at the end of the cavilers show, he proposes to you and you say yes. A few months later you announce it to your high school band you work with. A few months after that you have your wedding and all your marching band friends are there. You end up having your first child 9 months after your wedding ( you two are frisky). You both continue working with the cavaliers and high school  band and you continue to have little drum corps babies.

The end

In Rome on the Campo di Fiori
Baskets of olives and lemons,
Cobbles spattered with wine
And the wreckage of flowers.
Vendors cover the trestles
With rose-pink fish;
Armfuls of dark grapes
Heaped on peach-down.

On this same square
They burned Giordano Bruno.
Henchmen kindled the pyre
Close-pressed by the mob.
Before the flames had died
The taverns were full again,
Baskets of olives and lemons
Again on the vendors' shoulders.

I thought of the Campo dei Fiori
In Warsaw by the sky-carousel
One clear spring evening
To the strains of a carnival tune.
The bright melody drowned
The salvos from the ghetto wall,
And couples were flying
High in the cloudless sky.

At times wind from the burning
Would driff dark kites along
And riders on the carousel
Caught petals in midair.
That same hot wind
Blew open the skirts of the girls
And the crowds were laughing
On that beautiful Warsaw Sunday.

Someone will read as moral
That the people of Rome or Warsaw
Haggle, laugh, make love
As they pass by martyrs' pyres.
Someone else will read
Of the passing of things human,
Of the oblivion
Born before the flames have died.

But that day I thought only
Of the loneliness of the dying,
Of how, when Giordano
Climbed to his burning
There were no words
In any human tongue
To be left for mankind,
Mankind who live on.

Already they were back at their wine
Or peddled their white starfish,
Baskets of olives and lemons
They had shouldered to the fair,
And he already distanced
As if centuries had passed
While they paused just a moment
For his flying in the fire.

Those dying here, the lonely
Forgotten by the world,
Our tongue becomes for them
The language of an ancient planet.
Until, when all is legend
And many years have passed,
On a great Campo dci Fiori
Rage will kindle at a poet's word.